


Rinse Cycle

by MonsterTesk



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Light BDSM, M/M, PTSD, spoilers for up to s03e24
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-11
Updated: 2016-05-30
Packaged: 2018-01-24 07:53:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 36
Words: 100,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1597343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MonsterTesk/pseuds/MonsterTesk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is something soothing in the urban decay of Laundromats. Especially late at night when it's just Stiles, flickering fluorescents, and the occasional resigned resident.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. English Summer Rain

**Author's Note:**

> I got stuck on The Killing Type so I did what I do whenever I get stuck: write something else. Here it is. This is going to be my, "Fuck, I can't figure this story I'm actually writing out so I'm going to go write this other thing for a little while then come back to it" story.  
> Don't expect much out of me and we'll both be happy.  
> Unfulfilled, but happy. If that's possible.

 

Saint Louis is home to a myriad of things _:_ City Museum, the River Front, Forest Park, The Arch, high crime rates, low minimum wages, right to work laws, and the award for 7th place in worst driver’s in the U.S. The town is bisected by a loping road that truncates streets and is the bane in the existence of every county kid who’s come into the city to pub crawl themselves into oblivion.

On one side of this street are sloping lawns, houses that a decade ago would have fallen under the definition of McMansions when that term was popular; On the other side are duplexes, apartment complexes, and shotgun style housing that guarantees no privacy and the world’s creepiest reconstruction era basements. The poorest in the city live within walking distance of the richest. Neither is pleased by this.

Stiles doesn’t live by either of these two groups. He has, like most other middle class brats, migrated to North County.

For the most part, it’s quiet, quaint. The streets are narrow, the houses old and gingerbread-like in their uniqueness. There’s no sidewalks so in the evening Stiles can sit on his porch and watch couples, kids, and the occasional jogger trot past his house in the middle of the street like he lives in one of those 80’s coming-of-age movies. Every hour on the hour church bells chime the time and once a year the city has a carnival and a parade that all but shuts down traffic. Stiles doesn’t mind it, though.

He likes the peace. He likes the city and he likes his friends. Stiles even likes his therapist despite his attempts to talk about the last three years he lived in Beacon Hills.

“I think it would help you move on, to heal.”

Stiles scratches at the braid Tonia made for his keychain and says nothing for a little while. Donald waits patiently, as he always does, for Stiles to answer.

“What if—”

Stiles pauses, looks out the window at the trees bracketing the view. The wind whips them back and forth in a flurry of indecision. He can relate.

“What if I don’t want to? What if I—I just don’t want to?”

Stiles can hear Donald shift in his seat but Stiles doesn’t look, too transfixed by the sun shining through the leaves.

“Talking about it will give it less power; it’ll help you to overcome it, grow past it.”

Stiles shakes his head and smiles.

“That’s where you lose me, Donald. You assume I want to heal, to get better, but what if I don’t? What if I want it to _fester_ , to eat me up until it’s all I am? What if I deserve that?”

Donald leans forward, Stiles can see him in the corner of his eye, and clasp his hands together.

“No one deserves that. No matter what you think you did.”

Stiles laughs. Donald has no idea. He wouldn’t be saying these things to Stiles if he knew he was talking to a mass murderer.

“I know you lived in Beacon Hills during the—the—”

“Killing spree,” Stiles interjects. “It was a killing spree. Similar to a shopping spree but at the end everyone is fashionably dead and not deadly fashionable.”

Donald snorts which is one of the reasons Stiles likes him better than his last therapist who had no sense of humor at all and would make these concerned faces at Stiles when he made jokes.

“So you knew someone who died in the killing spree?”

“You could say.”

Stiles wonders if it counts as knowing them if he’s the one who gutted them.

Donald opens his mouth, probably intent on expelling more platitudes but he’s cut off by Stiles’ phone chirping. His hour is up. Stiles is free.

“Saved by the bell. See you next week.”

Donald smiles at Stiles this tightlipped thing that makes Stiles uncomfortable.

“Think on it, OK? Talking about what happened _will_ help.”

Stiles nods and closes the door to Donald’s office before he can say more.

If he stays any longer he’ll be late for work.

 

Being a barista has its perks but being a barista at a place that hardly gets any business is better. Stiles talks to maybe fifteen, twenty people a night, more on weekends. It’s wonderful. Just him and an empty shop, the smell of coffee, and a good book. Most of the time, Stiles doesn’t even bother wearing his apron, just sits on random furniture until someone wanders in. It’s peaceful, quiet. He doesn’t make a lot of money but since the place is so astoundingly unpopular, he’s usually the only one on shift. Especially since Stiles works second shift.

Nothing remarkable happens while Stiles works unless one counts the occasional drunk making out on the glass in front or the homeless person camping out in the alley behind the place.

Stiles spends his hours mostly in silence at home and at work. He likes to see how long he can go without saying a word. His longest streak is six days (the seventh having been his appointment with his therapist).

It used to be hard, challenging, for him to keep quiet but now… Now, well, it’s breathing. If he feels like saying something he just breathes in, holds, then breathes out the need to speak. It’s almost relaxing, freeing in a way to not be bound by the definitions of verbose.

 

When he arrives home, the lights are out and the mail is still on the porch. Renee must not be home, he thinks as he sorts through the mail. There are four cubbyholes for mail in the sideboard: Stiles, Topher, Renee, and ex-roommates. The only box that regularly gets full is the ex-roommates one as Topher has his mail redirected to Colorado where he teaches nine months out of the year, Renee just moved in three months ago, and Stiles only ever gets bills and junk mail.

Stiles doesn’t make himself dinner, doesn’t turn on the T.V., and doesn’t pull out his laptop. He simply heads for the back of the house, hangs up his keys on one of the coat hooks near the backdoor, and descends into the basement. It’s cool downstairs, quiet and dark. The whole space is his. He sublets the entire basement from Topher. It’s a bit more than one of the two rooms upstairs and come school breaks, if both of those are occupied then Stiles will end up sharing a bed with Topher but it’s worth it.

Stiles turns the dimmer switch until it’s just bright enough he can make out the details of the downstairs living room. There’s a desk/office space, two decrepit couches, and walls covered in books. There used to be a laundry room as well but that was turned into storage for Topher’s things while he’s away.

He leaves his messenger bag on the desk and heads over to the cage catty corner to the bedroom door. Something small and fuzzy leaps onto the cage wall. Stiles smiles and pokes his fingers through the wire, waffling it back and forth against the warm white belly pressed against the cage while he opens the door with the other hand.

True to his name, Ed climbs on top of the cage and launches himself at Stiles, latching onto his shirt and scrabbling up onto his shoulder. Stiles smiles and, scratching Ed’s back with one hand, picks up Al with the other. Wynn he gathers to his stomach once Al has climbed his way up Stiles’ shoulder to Ed. Wynn clings to his hand as Stiles walks the familiar path from rat cage to bedroom door then bed. Wynn he sets down. Ed jumps onto the bed with a resounding plop as his belly hits first. Al stays on Stiles’ shoulder through his whole after work routine. Once his teeth are brushed, jeans abandoned on the floor, and shoes in the crate next to the door, Stiles sprawls out on his bed and lets his rats crawl all over him until, hours later, he falls asleep.

Nothing bad happened today. Stiles worked, saw his therapist, and ate dinner at Bread Co. Today was a good day. Hopefully, his dreams will be kind.


	2. Teenage Angst

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shine the headlight, straight into my eyes.  
> Like the roadkill, I'm paralysed.  
> One fluid gesture, like stepping back in time.  
> Trapped in amber, petrified.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fuck off: Yes, I am pretentious and lazy enough to use song lyrics as a summary. I'm tired, assholes.

_He’s a proverb, a cliché, the apple in the eye of discord.  There is nothing more_ fun _than being the fox in a hen house and this is even more true when the hens are werewolves. Danu never gave a better boon to him. They are just as prone to anger and turmoil as the sea; just as capricious. He wonders why none of the hunters ever connected the dots. It’s no matter._

_These mermaids have met their leviathan and he’ll have so much fun plucking the feathered corpses of their fear, self-loathing, and guilt. He was called to kill them all and that’s the price she will pay. **He’ll kill them all.**_

Stiles opens his eyes and stares at the ceiling. There’s a bitter taste in his mouth that he knows too well and three small weights on him: one on his chest, one tucked into his armpit, and a third low on his stomach.

Stiles turns his head to check his alarm clock. Eight thirty. Slowly, he picks up little rat bodies and sets them down to his side. Wynn sleepily squeaks in protest before Stiles bunches the blanket around the three of them. Ed yawns, nudges Wynn onto his back, and curls up on his stomach.

Stiles gets out of bed slowly and makes his way over the cement floor into the bathroom. With an absurdly loud click the bathroom light flickers on.

Stiles spits into the sink rust-colored saliva. He tries to avoid himself in the mirror but can’t help feeling the flakes of blood on his check when he runs his hand across his face. He needs to shave. He’s needed to shave for a week now. Instead, Stiles cranks the hot water on and watches the faucet sputter until steam rises.

He flinches when he splashes his face. He keeps doing it over and over and over and over again. Cup hands, stick under faucet, splash face. Repeat until he feels sun burnt.

Stiles spends the rest of the morning sitting on his back porch, smoking and drinking coffee as he watches rabbits move through the unmowned grass of his back yard.

At one he’s penning a letter to Scott he’ll never send. It will go into the box with all the rest. He’s got five of them – one for each year. He hides them in his closet underneath the blanket Scott’s mom gave him one year for Christmas.

Stiles spares a moment to wonder what his therapist would think of this. He’d probably worry. He’d say he cared for Stiles as he was calling the police to file a fifty-one-fifty. Stiles smiles to himself and tells Scott this—the imaginary one that hovers in doorways and just past Stiles’ line of sight with his concerned face on and his Voice of Reason. This Scott doesn’t walk on eggshells around Stiles or flinch when Stiles moves suddenly. This Scott doesn’t blame him for Allison’s death or Kira’s mom or Melissa being hospitalized or everything else.

He says snarky things to Stiles and looks sad when Stiles feels small and terrifying and like he should be dead and only sometimes hisses at Stiles in the middle of the night that he thought of Stiles as his _brother_.

Stiles’ phone goes off with a jangle like an old style phone. He barely manages to suppress the flinch.

“Yeah.”

“What kind of a greeting is that, man? At least pretend to be happy I called.”

Stiles leans back in his chair and stares out the window at the robin perched on his neighbor’s gutter.

“What do you need, Mac?”

He hears her sigh over the phone.

“Can’t a girl just call to say hi to her favorite misanthropic buddy?”

“No.”

“Fine then. My car won’t start.”

Stiles stubs out his cigarette in the ashtray.

“Is there gas in the tank?”

“ _One time._ I run out of gas one time…”

Stiles says nothing.

“Yeah. I’ve got a full tank. Will you come and make my baby go vroom vroom again?”

“Where are you?”

“Juniata and Grand. If you come I’ll buy you a coffee at Mokabe’s.”

Stiles sighs.

“Half an hour. Don’t wander off.”

“Ohhh, thank you! Thank you thank you tha—”

Stiles hangs up, stomach churning at the idea that he’s tricked Mac into thinking him a good person. He’s such a piece of shit.

 

Mac ends up having a loose battery cable that takes all of five minutes to fix. They don’t end up staying at Mokabe’s because Andrew is working and Stiles can’t handle his kicked puppy dog eyes. They remind him of Scott.

Stiles had actually liked Andrew quite a bit but then it had all gone to shit just like everything else Stiles touches.

 

There is something soothing in the urban decay of Laundromats. Especially at night when it’s just Stiles, flickering fluorescents, and the occasional resigned resident of this fair city.

It’s the stench of fermented B.O. that really screams eau du Valley of the Flowers.

This is his ritual, his safety. This is what keeps him sane-ish. Tuesdays are laundry nights. Stiles waits until eleven, twelve, one o’clock then heads to the twenty-four hour Laundromat on Graham/Hanley and does his laundry for a few hours. He sits with his headphones in, music loud enough to drown out his thoughts, and watches people turn _dirty_ into _clean._

There’s Cathy who has six grandkids and two jobs. She hates coming at night but it’s the only time she has. She’s chatty.

Justin says nothing, just dumps a garbage bag of clothes in a top-loading washer and sourly feeds the thing quarters until his hand is empty. Stiles only knows his name due to the nametag he sometimes forgets to take off.

Sasha talks on his phone to his BFF, Tilly, continuously.

Then there’s Stiles. Stiles who tucks his feet up onto his bench and eyes everyone who walks into the place just so it’s clear to them that he isn’t going to talk to anyone. Stiles who says nothing. Stiles who crouches in front of the Laundromat and chain-smokes. Stiles who unsettles Cathy and makes Sasha talk quietly and gets people to clutch their laundry baskets to them with just a smile.

Stiles who has to duck behind a row of washers when someone he recognizes walks in.

Stiles crouches down and hangs his head, heart beating wildly. This shouldn’t be happening. Stiles moved two thousand miles away; he shouldn’t coincidentally run into _him of all people_ at the Laundromat.

He all but crab walks around the row of washers, trying to stay out of sight.

Please don’t let him notice me.

Please don’t let him notice me.

Please don’t let him notice me.

Please don’t let him notice me.

Please. Please. Please. Please please.

If Chris Argent does notice Stiles he does not react. He just sets his laundry basket on the ground in front of a front-loading washer and sorts through his pocket for change. Stiles bites his lip and closes his eyes. He’s not going to do it, is he? He’s not—he is. Argent doesn’t notice the telltale hints that a washer is out of order like the tape X over the coin return button or the dust on the cycle selects buttons.

Stiles watches in horror as he picks himself up off the ground and strides over to Argent. He cannot believe he’s doing this. It’s just two dollars. It’s not like Stiles is saving his daughter from being horribly murdered as sacrifice to a cruel and merciless god. He can’t do this, Stiles screams in his own head as he holds his hand over the coin acceptor.

He doesn’t look up, doesn’t make eye contact, doesn’t do anything but ignore the voice in his head screaming how this is only going to lead to terrible things that sounds like Scott’s voice.

“This one’s broken,” Stiles says. It’s silent for a few seconds aside for the quiet whirr of Stiles’ own load.

“Thanks.”

“Use one of the top loaders; they’re more reliable.”

Stiles removes his hand from the machine, turns, and flees the run down Laundromat in a semi-dignified way.

Outside, Stiles leans against the bricking, stares down at his hands, and counts. His heart is thundering in his chest. Stiles can practically feel the canid teeth of amorality closing onto the back of his neck. When – if it clamped down it would shake Stiles like an old slipper until everything is pain and death and terror and guilt.

“Hey.”

Stiles stills. He can taste blood again.

“Hi?” Stiles says, already digging in his pockets for his pack of smokes and lighter.

“Stiles, right?”

Stiles nods, breathing in around the cigarette between his lips, thumbing futily at his Bic, trying to get it to light in the strong Saint Louis winds.

“Here,” Argent says before there’s the snicking sound of a Zippo. Stiles hesitates before leaning in to the flame sheltered in Argent’s hands.

No one says anything for the time it takes Stiles to take three drags and get dizzy.

“I didn’t know you lived here,” Argent confesses like he has to explain anything to Stiles.

Stiles breathes in, holds, then breathes out.

“For a while.”

The grass undulates, subject to the whims of the wind. Cars drive by and Justin pulls his trash bag of clothes out of the back of his pick up.

“Your dad here, too?”

“He’s not at the Laundromat.”

Argent huffs. Stiles inhales smoke and death, swallowing around the mulch of guilt roiling in his throat. He shouldn’t be so mean. He should do whatever he can to meet Argent’s needs. He did kill his daughter after all. Stiles licks his lips.

“Dad lives out in Imperial.”

Argent smiles at Stiles like he did him a favor. Stiles can barely look at him.

“Where’s that?”

Stiles ashes his cigarette before he answers.

“In the county. ‘Bout forty-five minutes South of here.”

Argent nods. Stiles plugs his mouth with his cigarette.

“How—how have you been, Stiles?”

Stiles takes in a big breath to breathe in the sarcastic response he felt like giving.

“Here. I’m here.”

Argent nods again. This time like that’s a legitimate response.

“You in school?”

Stiles shakes his head, blowing smoke out above his head.

“No.”

“Did you drop out?” Argent asks, surprise in his voice.

“No, Mister argent, I graduated.”

“Oh.”

Quiet again. Stiles French inhales because he can.

“What’s your degree in?”

Stiles blows out smoke rings.

“Double. Creative writing and mythology.”

“Impressive.”

Stiles shrugs and flicks the cherry of his cigarette off, grinding it into ash with his foot while stuffing the butt into his pocket to throw away later.

“I suppose.”

Silence. Stiles wonders if the silence is uncomfortable for Argent. If he’s making him feel unwelcome. He is but Stiles doesn’t want him to think that.

“When did you move here?”

Argent inhales slowly, eyes scanning the passing cars. Stiles almost believes he’s breathing in words just like Stiles does.

"One week tomorrow.”

Stiles smiles. Of course. Life never procrastinates torturing him.

“Like it so far?”

“Yeah. I used to live here once. Over a decade ago. It was… different then.”

Stiles checks his watch. His laundry needs to be switched soon.

“You move here because of Trouble?”

Argent shakes his head.

“No. I moved here because there’s hardly any in Saint Louis.”

Stiles nods. It’s starting to get muggy. Must be a storm on the way.

“I’m… retired, as it were. How long have you been here?”

“Five years.”

It’s silent again. Stiles thinks of a dozen things to say but he breaths them all in, lets them sit in his lungs, then expels empty air.

“I don’t see your Jeep in the lot.”

Stiles nods. He doesn’t drive anywhere he doesn’t have to now. He likes walking: the sensation of putting one foot in front of the other and watching the sidewalk slowly creep under his sneakers.

“I walked.”

“Oh. Do you live close?”

“’Bout a mile or so.”

Argent’s phone chirps.

“Time to switch my laundry.”

“Me too.”

Stiles follows him back inside.

The transfer of clothes is done in silence save for Argent asking Stiles if the dryer he’s picked is working. Stiles nods in response before returning to his own pile of garments.

Forty minutes and four quarters later and Stiles has warm dry clothes. He learns that over the past five years that Argent has lived in Portland, Miami, Nashville, Dallas, Rhode Island, and Atlanta. In return Stiles makes short statements of facts.

He went to SLU. He works at a coffee shop. He bartended once for about a year. He moved to North County over a year ago. He used to live in U City. He likes Beehive Park.

Stiles packs his laundry bag into the cart he keeps. It’s just like the ones he used to see little foreign ladies truck their groceries in when he lived in California.

It’s not until his foot hits sidewalk that Argent calls his name. Stiles turns around and watches him jog across the parking lot.

“Let me give you a ride home, Stiles.”

Stiles almost turns him down. Almost says, ‘no thanks,’ and continues on his way. He really doesn’t live that far away. But when he opens his mouth to do so a car drives by, casting light on to Argent’s hopeful face and Stiles can’t disappoint him. He’s not even sure he could refuse Argent anything. Not after what Stiles has taken from him.

“O.K.,” Stiles says. “O.K.”

Argent smiles at Stiles and it’s thankful and happy and Stiles burns.

Argent loads Stiles’ cart into the back of his SUV, refusing Stiles’ attempts to do it himself.

It takes less than five minutes to drive to Stiles’ house. The only thing that leaves his mouth is, “turn here,” “left at the stop sign,” and, “second house from the corner.”

Argent puts the car in park right in front of Stiles’ house. Stiles hardly notices because there’s someone sitting on his porch.

Long curly hair, ridiculous perfectly oversized plaid shirt, jittery leg. Andrew.

“It was nice running into you, Stiles. I guess I’ll see you around.”

“Yeah,” Stiles says, hand already opening the door. “I’m around. Thanks for the ride, Mister Argent.”

He hops out and grabs his laundry from the back before Argent can say anymore.

As quickly as he can, Stiles hoofs it to the back door, rolling his cart up the drive. There are feet following behind him that make Stiles tense. He drops the cart and turns around once he’s out of sight of the street. Andrew stops two feet away.

“I saw you—at Mokabe’s,” Andrew starts. He looks at Stiles with a hopeful expression.

Stiles waits.

Andrew sighs.

“Look, Stiles. I like you, O.K.? I’m not gonna stop just because you got scared. Give me a chance, alright?”

He steps closer, raising his hand to brush fingers against Stiles’ face. Stiles’ eyes close of their own volition. Still, he says nothing.

“I get that you’re rocking that tall, dark, and broody thing and I like it. So just… just let me in, yeah? Please.”

Andrew leans in, his free hand sneaking up to touch Stiles’ chest. Stiles breathes in deep to keep himself from doing something stupid, momentarily forgetting that breathing only works on words. Andrew smells like coffee and Irish spring body wash.

Stiles explodes into movement: body lurching forward, lips pressing against Andrew’s, hands whipping out to wrap around him. Andrew smiles against Stiles’ lips, arms looped over Stiles’ shoulders. Stiles tangles the fingers of his right hand into Andrew’s long, curly hair.

He nibbles on Stiles’ bottom lip, muttering, “Was that so hard?”

Stiles breathes in then says, “No. But it will be.”

Andrew laughs like Stiles made a joke. He didn’t. This isn’t the hard part. Kissing and touching and holding isn’t the hard part; the hard part is keeping the fact that he’s a horrific piece of shit to himself that is.

Andrew kisses Stiles once, hard, his facial hair scratching Stiles’ lips. He tastes like over-sweet coffee. Stiles hates sweet coffee. His hands wander down and down and down until Stiles’ fingers dig in to Andrew’s tiny ass. Andrew pulls on Stiles with his arms still around his shoulders, slowly herding him with shuffling steps towards the back door. They knock over something but Stiles doesn’t care to figure out what, too busy trying to keep Andrew’s mouth too occupied to talk.

Maybe this is some sort of poor decision madness brought on by running in to Argent at the Laundromat, Stiles thinks as he fumbles open the screen door. Out of the corner of his eye, he thinks he sees someone standing on his driveway but before he can turn his head Andrew has yanked him inside and against him, his hands roaming all over Stiles. Thunder cracks through the sky and everything is briefly purple before the rain begins to fall. Andrew's teeth flash the color of eggplant insides in the brief second that lightning reigns over the world. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What am I even _doing_ with my life?


	3. Infra Red

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One last thing before I shuffle off the planet,  
> I will be the one to make you crawl,  
> there is no running that can hide you,  
> forget your running, I will find you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've already killed one of my notebooks for this piece of shit. Haha. Like seriously. I've filled up my notebook already. If only I could figure out my other story this easily. Whatevs.

_The air crackles around him with fear. Sharp like ozone and banana sweet. A woman wails, holding her dead comrade to her chest, smearing his blood everywhere. He just has to think it and a sword as sharp as his wit slides across the back of her neck just low enough and deep enough to insinuate itself between vertebrae. She is paralyzed. Alive but little else. She doesn’t scream because she cannot feel anything. Her body slumps, falling over on top of her friend’s corpse._

_If she’s lucky, someone will notice she’s still breathing. If not she’ll be filed away like a bookend amongst the other corpses. Found but not noticed; alive but not living. She’ll starve to death while her family grieves for her still beating heart._

_She’ll spend her last few hours alive trying to convince herself that help will come but knowing that even if it does she might as well be dead._

Stiles gasps awake, scrabbling for the lamp. He needs to see. He has to count. There’s a weight on him, a body. He whimpers and shoves it off of him, heart beating so loud he can’t hear a thing over the rush of blood in his ears.

He manages to turn on the light and knock over the lamp at the same time. It doesn’t matter. He can see. Stiles can see.

One two three four and a thumb.

One, two, three, four, and a thumb.

One, two, three, four, and a thumb.

He’s awake.

Stiles is awake. He says it to himself. And again for good measure.

“Hey! Can you hear me? Stiles!”

Stiles snaps his head up, heart beginning to race again.

“Dude, are you O.K.?” Andrew asks, crawling across the bed slowly.

“I’m awake,” Stiles says. “I’m here.”

“Yeah, you said. Stiles—”

Andrew frowns, sitting down next to Stiles on the bed.

“You’re bleeding…”

Stiles licks his lips, tasting something bitter sweet.

“I am,” he says.

It’s silent for a few seconds.

“What—what was that, Stiles? You, like, jack-knifed upright and threw me off the bed.”

Stiles breathes in, holds, then breathes out.

“Sorry I woke you,” he says, diverting his gaze under the ruse of getting out of bed. He makes his way into the bathroom, Andrew on his heals.

The faucet sputters on like it always does. Stiles rinses his mouth out and washes his face clean, turning the water pink in the process. He can make out Andrew in the mirror, wiry frame taught with tension and a frown on his face.

“What’s wrong, baby?”

Stiles winces at the word baby. He has never liked being called that.

“Just a dream,” Stiles says, leaning on the sink and looking down. Water drips down his face. Stiles counts fingers.

“No. A dream is when you can fly or David Boreanaz teaches you how to ski on the beach. That was a nightmare.”

Stiles turns off the faucet and reaches for a towel to dry his face off with. It’s quiet while he does so. Andrew sighs, steps into Stiles’ space and grabs him by the shoulders.

“It’s O.K., baby. You can tell me about your nightmare. That’s what I’m here for, right? That’s what boyfriends do.”

Stiles drapes his arms around Andrew’s waist and stoops to press his face against Andrew’s neck. He says nothing. He isn’t going to tell Andrew about his dream. He will never tell Andrew about them, that he knows for a fact.

“See? You’re fine. Everything is fine.”

There has never been a more untrue thing said.

 

There’s a clump of detritus gathered in the place where rain gutter meets the wall of his neighbor’s house. There’s no way it could end up there on its own, Stiles thinks as he watches two squirrels bark over territory. It would be peaceful out here this morning. It’s a lovely seventy-six degrees, the sun is shining but not too bright, and the light breeze ruffles the leaves in the trees. Every once in a while the sky rumbles as a plane takes off from Lambert not so far away.

“Stiles!”

Stiles blinks and turns his head. Andrew is frowning at him.

“Did you hear a word I just said?”

He has not and he doesn’t care but he’s sure saying so will piss Andrew off. Andrew talks a lot when he’s pissed off and he always somehow looks hurt at the same time.

“Course. Was just thinking.”

Andrew smiles, hair shifting around his face in the breeze.

“Thinking what?”

That you talk too much and you never go away.

“Nice day. Was thinking I’d go take a hike.”

Andrew leans forward, sliding his hand across the patio table to trace unimaginative lines into the back of Stiles’ hand. Stiles resists the urge to pull away. The robin Stiles has seen around the pass two weeks perches on the fence, perfectly situated past Andrew’s shoulder.

“That’s a great idea. We can pack a lunch and make fun of joggers. I love Forest Park.”

Stiles doesn’t tell him he meant by himself or that it doesn’t count as hiking if you’re in the middle of the damn city. He just breathes.

 

Delmar Loop is home to many things. The Tivoli, Fitz’s, Vintage Vinyl, Pi, Blick Art Materials, Pin-up Bowl, and, Stiles’ favorite, Three Kings Public House. Though today Stiles isn’t here for any of these things.

Today Stiles is painted monochrome with a 50’s up-do. He’s Betty Parker on her knees, face stricken, lips vermillion as she kneels at Bill Johnson’s feet (played in black and white by Mac). Neither of them says anything, caught in still frame like a paused movie.

They don’t blink, don’t move, don’t react when a little girl leans her face in close with wide, curious eyes.

This is Stiles’ favorite way to go outside, to interact with society at large. It started out as a Halloween thing. Just a joke. They’d dressed up as Ilsa Lund and Rick Blaine, all sepia body paint and sharp clothes. They’d had a contest to see who could scare the most people. They’d both loved it; the role reversal, the stillness, the colorless landscapes… It made Stiles feel something.

“Daddy, why’s he wearin’ a dress?” the little girl asks. Stiles doesn’t move. He’s a statue, a living piece of history.

“It’s art, honey.”

“Why’s he look so sad? Art’s supposed to make you happy.”

The little girl’s dad drops a bill in their tip box. Mac bends with a mechanical grace, bowing to the little girl with a wink. Stiles widens his eyes, lips forming a red O, hand moving like stop-frame to hover a few inches in front of his face. He breathes on his knuckles and leans back.

The little girl shrieks and runs to her dad, hiding behind his legs and giggling.

Mac leans in to him and Stiles rears back, a look of fear on his face.

They both stop at the same time.

The sky begins to turn gray behind Mac’s head to match their motif. The Chuck Berry statue behind them silently plays music to suit their frozen scene. This is Pleasantville.

 

Stiles’ dad works as night security for an office building on Olive. It’s not an exciting job for the most part. He mainly just sits in the reception room and reads until someone asks him to escort them to their car. Creve Coeur is a nice part of Saint Louis County so mostly he does nothing. He’s pretty much there for appearance’s sake. Once a week, Stiles brings him dinner when he gets off work. It’s on the way home so it’s not as out of the way as visiting his dad all the way out in Imperial. This week it’s Steak ‘n’ Shake.

They sit together in the outer waiting room, a spread of fries, steak-burgers, and milkshakes between them.

“So what’s new with you?”

Stiles slowly chews his mouthful of fries.

“Apparently I have a boyfriend.”

Dad’s eyebrows rise.

“Apparently?”

Stiles takes a sip of his Butterfinger shake and nods.

“Andrew has decided to ignore common sense and date me anyway.”

Dad shakes his head, a small amused smile on his face.

“Kid has gumption, I’ll give him that.”

Stiles snorts, takes a bite of his burger, and doesn’t say that as far as he’s concerned Andrew’s most positive attribute is that he comes silently.

 

“What’re you doing?”

Stiles runs his hands along the underbelly of his baby, arms already covered in grease.

“Checking for rust.”

Andrew sighs. Stiles can hear him sit down on the ground.

“How long is it gonna take?”

Stiles picks some mud off of the inside of the tire.

“Long as it’s going to take.”

It’s silent for all of fifteen seconds.

“Why don’t you just buy a new car?”

Stiles doesn’t dignify that with a response.

“You wouldn’t have to check for rust on a new car. Hell, you could even drive it every day. Better gas mileage, too, I bet.”

Stiles closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. It echoes strangely in the garage.

“You could trade up? Get a new Wrangler.”

Stiles propels himself out from under the car. Andrew stands as Stiles advances on him.

“Woah, hey. I didn’t mean to upset you. I just—”

Stiles shoves Andrew against the side of his Jeep.

“This is a modified CJ5. It’s older than your stepmother, has _well_ over one hundred thousand miles on it and runs better and more reliably than any piece of crap cereal box car I could buy off a lot. She is a thing of beauty in a culture of saccharine grace. I do not need a new car; I need a tune up.”

Andrew starts smiling slyly halfway through Stiles’ rant, his hands creeping on to Stiles’ hips. Stiles glares at Andrew, arms boxing him in against his Jeep.

“I could give you a tune up.”

Stiles glares. Andrew wets his lips.

“Come on,” he says, fingers skating along the front of Stiles’ jeans. “Let me pop your hood.”

The button on Stiles’ fly gives easily to Andrew’s sure fingers. Lips ghost against Stiles’ neck. He closes his eyes as Andrew sinks to his knees.

 

A quarter to midnight and Stiles finally has some peace. The Laundromat is relatively empty: just him and some kid who never comes over to the side that Stiles uses. He’s got a load in the wash and two more waiting out in his Jeep to be brought in. He likes to do them one at a time, drag out his time here. It’s one of his favorite places.

Stiles turns the page in his book and reads:

_I get unreasonably angry with John sometimes. I’m sure I never used to be so sensitive. I think it’s due to this nervous condition. But John says…_

Stiles reads it again. And again. It makes his heart race, there’s just something about it. There’s just something about this story.

Someone taps Stiles on the shoulder. He looks up. Chris Argent. Again. Life truly loves fucking with him. He does deserve it, though, so it’s not like he can complain much. Stiles watches Argent speak for a few seconds, not hearing a word he says over his music.

Argent stops, waiting expectantly. Stiles pulls his headphones out.

“Sorry, what?”

Argent quirks a smile onto his face. Stiles has no idea how he manages to smile so easily. Especially at the man who murdered his daughter.

“I said I didn’t expect to run in to you here again.”

Stiles turns off his music and stuffs his phone into his messenger bag.

“Tuesday is laundry day.”

Argent nods and sits down next to Stiles.

“That it is.”

Stiles closes his book and sets it aside.

“Charlotte Perkins Gilman?”

Stiles scrapes his teeth over his lip, scratching an itch.

“It was either her or Bukowski and I didn’t feel nearly enough like a pretentious asshole for that.”

Argent laughs.

“Have you read Chopin?”

Stiles takes in a deep breath.

“Who hasn’t?”

Argent holds up a thin book.

“Me. Any good?”

Stiles shrugs.

“I think The Story of an Hour is better but The Awakening’s not bad.”

Argent flips the book over like he can decipher its secrets without opening it. He might.

“Maybe I can borrow it from you?”

Stiles nods.

“Maybe.”

Argent nods and leans back on the bench, opening his book. Stiles stares in complete disbelief with how at-ease Argent is around Stiles considering… Argent looks up.

“What?”

Stiles shakes his head and picks up his own book.

“Stop by sometimes. I’ll loan you The Story of an Hour.”

Argent smiles and it’s blinding, completely unreal.

“Thanks, Stiles.”

He opens his book to where he left off.

“No problem, Mister Argent.”

“Please, you’re not a kid anymore, Stiles. You can call me Chris.”

Stiles tries to ignore the way his chest burns at that. He doesn’t deserve this, any of this. He doesn’t deserve to be living much less have any of the things he does. Chris doesn’t deserve it either: to have to live in a world where his daughter’s killer washes his clothes in the same machines as him.

 

“I’ve started having nightmares again,” Stiles says, hands clasped together and shoulders tense.

“How frequent?”

Stiles scratches at dead skin around his thumbnail.

“It used to just be one a week but now it’s three, four times a week.”

Donald has the ugliest shade of carpet Stiles has ever seen. So inoffensive. So beige.

“On the nights you don’t have nightmares, what’re you dreaming about?”

Stiles takes in a deep breath.

“I’m not.”

He doesn’t have to look to know that Donald has raised his eyebrows.

“You don’t dream?”

Stiles shakes his head, pulling a strip of dead skin off his thumb slow enough to make it sting and ache.

“I don’t sleep.”

“I’ll make you a deal. I’ll renew your prescription if you tell me something about your time in Beacon Hills.”

Stiles glares at Donald.

“That’s cheating.”

Donald shrugs, unrepentant.

“Talking about it will help just as much as the pills.”

Stiles takes a deep breath then lets it out slowly. He says nothing for a full two minutes.

“Your move, Stiles.”

Stiles winces at the phrasing he uses. Donald has no idea.

“When is a door not a door?”

Donald leans back in his chair, frown on his face.

“What does a riddle have to do with the Beacon Hills massacres?”

“Everything.”

Donald waits. Stiles chews at the inside of his lip where there’s a shelf of skin from biting it open, letting it heal, then biting it open again.

“So when is a door not a door, Stiles?”

Stiles fans his hands apart at his sides and looks Donald in the eyes.

“When it’s a jar.”

Donald waits. Stiles drops his hands, curling them against his chest and hunching over.

“I used to listen in on my dad’s phone calls. He was the sheriff of Beacon Hills back then. All the best and coolest news he got first. Like when the Hale house burnt down with all but two members of the family inside of it or—or when one of those two surviving members turns up five years later bisected in half.”

Stiles stops talking, he can’t go on anymore. His hands are shaking and his throat feels like it’s closing up and he’s not sure he can breathe. He can’t breath. Stiles tries to suck in as much oxygen as he can but it doesn’t help. He just ends up feeling more and more light-headed. He can’t do this. He can’t—he can never go back there. Ever. Ever. Ever. Ever.

He’ll drown in the blood of the people he massacred. He’ll choke on the screams of the people he tortured. He’ll climb on to Scott’s roof over and over and over again to ask him if he wants to go out and find the other half of a woman with him. Stiles is forever destined for _this._ For all the terrible shit in the world. It’s what he deserves even if he didn’t know it then.

He is no hero; he’s a villain. There’s no other word for it. Stiles is sure-fire evil— amoral and chaotic and forever seeking to make every good person in his life’s existence _suck._

It’s all his fault. All of it. Everything that happened to Scott and Allison and Derek and Lydia and Boyd and Erica and Isaac and Melissa and Chris and his dad and even Jackson.

It’s all his fault.

All of it.

Everything becomes unfocused then fades to black in strange polka dot patterns.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The story quoted in this is The Yellow Wallpaper. The full quote is this:  
> "I get unreasonably angry with John sometimes. I'm sure I never used to be so sensitive. I think it's due to this nervous condition. But John says if I feel so, I shall neglect proper self-control; so I take pains to control myself-- before him, at least, and that makes me very tired."
> 
> It's a truly wonderful and amazing story to read if you haven't. Two of my all-time faves were mentioned in this fic. Y'alls better appreciate those wonderful ladies and the masterpieces they deigned to give us.


	4. Bruise Pristine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "But now there was a dull stare in her eyes... It was not a glance of reflection, but rather indicated a suspension of intelligent thought.
> 
> There was something coming to her and she was waiting for it, fearfully. What was it? She did not know; it was too subtle and elusive to name. But she felt it, creeping out of the sky, reaching toward her through the sounds, the scents, the color that filled the air."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, look! I have Internet again. Yes, good. This a thing that is much good. 
> 
> Oh, Summary from The Story of an Hour. 
> 
> Enjoy. Or not.  
> Whatever.

“Enjoying the view?”

Stiles nods, taking a drag on his cigarette.

“The Canoli’s does look quite beautiful tonight,” Chris says, crouching down and lowering himself to sit next to Stiles against the curb. It’s three in the morning and Stiles feels… cross-faded; the world blurring as if he’s moving too fast.

“It’s the solitary W on the Walgreens that gets me,” Stiles says, attempting to feel his tongue. He hasn’t slept since his last session with his therapist. That had been… not good. He hasn’t had an attack that bad in a year and a half. Stiles in hales smoke and blows out rings, aiming them to frame the solitary W of the Walgreens sign.

“Are you waiting for someone?”

Stiles shakes his head. Chris looks at him expectantly. Stiles fiddles with his cigarette, flicking it with his thumb until ash falls off.

“What’re you doing, Chris?”

Stiles doesn’t look at him, hyper-aware of his presence enough as is without adding visuals.

“I ran out of toilet paper.”

Stiles shakes his head, drawing his knees closer to him.

“No. Why are you being friendly to me? After what—after all of that, how can you stand it?”

It’s silent for a long while. For the first time in years, Stiles actually feels uncomfortable because of it. Chris takes in a deep breath.

“Maybe I’m lonely. Maybe I just want to talk to someone who knew her.”

Stiles closes his eyes tight, inhaling between clenched teeth until his chest hurts.

 

“Serr-tra-line? Pra-zo-sin? Stiles, what’re these for?” Andrew asks, looking over at him. Stiles freezes, hands on Ed, Wynn already on his shoulder, and Al curled up in the pocket of his hoodie.

“Why’re you taking these?”

Stiles shrugs, carefully looking away from Andrew. He forgot to hide them before Andrew came over.

“Because they were prescribed to me.”

Andrew shakes his head, frowning as he reads the pill bottles.

“What are they _for_ , Stiles? Why’re you taking… Zoloft? This one is generic Zoloft.”

Stiles rolls his eyes, picking up Ed and walking out of his room to the rat cage. He wishes Andrew would drop this, would respect Stiles’ privacy enough to leave it alone. Andrew, of course, follows him.

“This is an anti-depressant, Stiles,” Andrew says, voice soft. Stiles puts his rats in their cage, silent. He feels a hand on his back. Then another one. Slowly, gently, arms wrap around him and Andrew presses himself against Stiles’ back. Stiles closes the cage door then his eyes, leaning back in to Andrew.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were depressed?”

Lips touch his shoulder. Stiles says nothing and lets Andrew come to his own conclusions. Let him think Stiles is depressed. Let him think whatever it takes to make it so Stiles doesn’t have to talk about it.

 

Sweat trickles down Stiles’ face as he watches his hand run a soapy sponge over the side of his Jeep in an ultimately futile effort to have his Jeep pollen-free for at least a day. It’s one of the few things Stiles hates about Saint Louis; how everything that sits still outside gets a thick layer of pollen on it come spring.

Stiles dunks the sponge in his bucket of soap water then stills, noticing a pair of boots advancing on him. He looks up.

“Hey.”

Chris says something Stiles can’t hear over his music, hands in his pockets. Stiles stands up, abandoning his sponge in the bucket.

“Hold on.”

Stiles pulls a rag out of his back pocket and dries his hands. Chris waits patiently. When Stiles is done, he tucks the rag back into his back pocket and pulls out his phone. With one hand he pauses his music while pulling his headphones out with the other. Chris frowns.

“You didn’t have to stop on my account,” Chris says, eyeing Stiles.

“What can I do for you, Chris?”

Chris licks his lips.

“Came by to borrow that book.”

Stiles nods and starts to head inside.

“If you let the soap dry you’ll just have to start over,” Chris says.

Stile stops, hand on the doorknob. He turns his head to look at Chris and takes a few seconds to consider this. He can see it’s mostly a flimsy excuse to stay but he can’t fault Chris this even if he doesn’t understand it. Stiles nods, turns, and heads back to his bucket. He crouches down next to it and reaches in for his sponge.

“You got an extra sponge?”

Stiles squeezes his, the soapy water is cool on his hot skin.

“No.”

He dunks his sponge into the water again then pulls it out.

“Oh. O.K.”

Stiles takes in a deep breath. He shouldn’t do this. He shouldn’t let the man whose daughter he murdered pretend to be his friend just because he has no other options. But if it’s what Chris wants… how can Stiles say no?

“There are some rags in the garage.”

Chris smiles at Stiles and it’s blinding, dazzling in the sunshine.

“Next to the wrenches. Drawer labeled clean.”

Chris nods and heads into the garage. Stiles watches him walk, not understanding how confident and comfortable Chris can look around Stiles.

They wash Stiles Jeep in relative silence, broken only by a few words here and there. Once his baby is all soaped up, Stiles turns on the hose to rinse her off.

“Will you get some towels from inside?”

Chris nods, bending to wipe his face on his shirt end. Stiles’ heart thunders in his ears briefly but he ignores this.

“Left when you get in. Through the kitchen. There’s a hall closet across from the vanity. Beach towels. Should be easy to find.”

Stiles waits until Chris is inside before holding down the switch on the nozzle, letting a mist of water out. He angles it up and closes his eyes, feeling the water spray down on him and cooling his over-heated skin. He stands there like that until he hears the screen door open.

Stiles switches the nozzle off and opens his eyes. Chris is leaning against the door, folded towels held in front of him, eyes fixed on Stiles.

“Are the towels for you or the Jeep?” Chris asks, voice a little thicker that it would be if he were trying to be funny. Stiles swallows and blinks water out of his eyes, conscious of his shirtlessness for the first time today.

 

“The Jeep,” he says, trying to keep his voice even. Chris smiles and shakes his head, throwing one of the towels at Stiles. They dry the Jeep off in silence that Stiles spends trying not to feel as if there are eyes on him.

“Wish I’d had the forethought to hose myself down, too,” Chris says, leaning against the Jeep next to Stiles.

“Hose’s on. Knock yourself out,” Stiles responds, smoothing his wet hair back and out of his face.

“I think I—”

A hand whips out too quick for Stiles to block, jerking his head to the side. Stiles panics, tries to shove Chris off of him but Chris pushes his forearm against Stiles’ chest and waits. Stiles ineffectually tries to free himself, shoving and squirming against Chris.

“Stiles!”

Stiles stills, panting, and looks at Chris.

“I’m not going to hurt you. Hold still.”

Stiles doesn’t move. Chris relaxes his hold, free hand carefully turning his head. Stiles lets him, closing his eyes, knowing what he’s doing. He cups Stiles’ ear, gently bending it out of the way.

The air is still, muggy. Stiles licks his lips, trying to control his breathing with Chris pressed against him, trapping him.

“Those marks weren’t supposed to be permanent,” Chris says. It takes a few moments for Stiles to talk.

“There weren’t.”

Chris lets go of Stiles’ ear and takes a small step back. Stiles opens his eyes.

“You got it tattooed. Why?”

He sounds angry. Stiles’ vision swims briefly. His throat hurts.

“Why, Stiles?” he asks again, softer.

Stiles wraps his arms around himself, hunching in.

“Because I needed to.”

He looks over at Chris and tries to fight off whatever it is he wants to do. Cry, run, scream, laugh hysterically.

“I needed to know. I needed to be able to see. I—I couldn’t tell. On my own—without it. I—”

Chris’ face solidifies into something terrifyingly like pity and he shushes Stiles, moving in again, Stiles tenses and waits but all Chris does is wrap his arms around him. It’s the most hurtful thing he could do.

They’re completely still for a moment then Stiles breaks—as he always does—and shudders, arms moving stiffly to grab at Chris’ shirt as his body slumps against him.

Stiles doesn’t cry. He doesn’t scream or sob or anything, he just rests. A sensation he doesn’t recognize slowly building in him. He isn’t numb or scared or angry for the first time in… in a long time.

“Shhhhh. It’s O.K. You’re you. You’re Stiles and no one else.”

Stiles laughs and buries his face against Chris’ neck, clinging to him like the child Stiles took from him should have.

 

“Hey, babe! I—Who’re you?”

The hand on Stiles’ neck moves up, covering his ear, thumb pressing into Stiles’ mark.

“Sh. He just fell asleep,” Chris says in a soft voice.

Stiles frowns, unable to stop himself from tensing. Chris’ thumb moves slowly back and forth behind Stiles’ ear.

“Alright,” Andrew says slowly, voice quiet. “And who are you?”

Chris shifts, carefully holding Stiles as he extracts himself out from under Stiles’ head. A pillow replaces Chris’ lap under his head and Stiles sighs as quietly as he can. Gently, a blanket is lowered on him—probably the throw he keeps on the couch. Then there are footsteps.

“Sorry. I’m Chris. I’m… an old friend of Stiles’”

“Funny. He’s never mentioned you.”

“No,” Chris says. “He wouldn’t.”

Stiles can hear the smile in his voice.

 

Stiles used to consider himself a people person. He used to thrive on company and interactions. It used to be the reason he got up in the morning was the prospect of society; to be able to bask in the presence of friends and foes alike. Stiles used to love people. Now that’s not the case.

Stiles hates going out. He hates having to make the same pedantic conversations over and over again. He hates the way people focus on silly, unimportant things and turn simple interactions into these long, complicated affairs.

“Come on, Stiles. Stop dragging your feet! It’ll be fun, I promise,” Andrew says, pulling on Stiles’ hand. Stiles takes in a big breath and keeps in the response he had to that even if it is true. Andrew shouldn’t make promises he can’t keep. Stiles should know.

“Look,” Andrew says, coming to a stop and wrapping his arms around Stiles. He’s gotten a lot more handsy recently. Stiles doesn’t get why. “It’ll just be a couple of hours and then we can go back to your fortress of solitude and I’ll do something that’ll make you happy, O.K.?”

“Like keep your trap shut? That’d make me happy,” Stiles doesn’t say. Andrew smiles at Stiles and leans in for a kiss. Stiles allows it.

“Andrew! Hiiii! How’re you doing? Gooood, I hope. Oh, you must be. I see that eye candy. No hiding it from me.”

Stiles lets his head fall forward to rest on Andrew’s shoulder. He hates everyone.

“Hey, Lara. How’re you doing?” Andrew asks, arms sliding down Stiles’ back.

“Drunk! And not blind. Who’s the cutie?”

Stiles straightens and pivots so he’s standing next to Andrew.

“Lara, Stiles. Stiles, Lara.”

Stiles nods at her. He’s perfected the bro-nod as a greeting. Lara smiles at Stiles and holds out her hand to shake. Stiles wasn’t particularly fond of dogs as a child and has become much more averse to them with age so he declines to participate in that particular trick.

“Oh, pooh. You’re not friendly at all. You at least speak, eye candy?”

“Woof,” Stiles says in a flat tone. Lara’s eyes go wide, her mouth forming a Passion Purple O, then laughs.

Andrew tightens his grip on Stiles’ hip and leans in.

“She may not realize you’re being a dick but I do, Stiles. Be _nice._ ”

Stiles drapes his arm around Andrew’s waist and leans in.

“No,” he says into Andrew’s ear, sliding his hand down and back to rest above Andrew’s ass. Andrew smiles and squeezes Stiles’ hip. Stiles knows they won’t be staying long. Or hopes, anyway. He may not consider himself a people person but that doesn’t mean he’s forgotten everything he learned as one.

 

Stiles blows out smoke, leaning on the brick half wall on the front porch. The party rages on inside: people shout, music blares and arms wrap around Stiles from behind.

“I know what you’re trying to do,” Andrew murmurs, kissing the back of Stiles’ neck. Stiles takes another drag of his cigarette.

“What am I trying to do?”

Andrew slides his hands up Stiles’ stomach and over his chest.

“Touching me, whispering in my ear, those bedroom eyes… You’re trying to turn me on enough that I’ll leave early.”

Stiles purposely pivots tightly to face Andrew, grazing his body against him.

“Those aren’t bedroom eyes.”

Andrew kisses Stiles’ chin.

“Yes, they are.”

Stiles shakes his head and lowers his head to press a kiss to Andrew’s neck, below his ear.

“No. These are I-want-to-fuck-you-against-the-closest-available-surface eyes.”

Andrew lets his head fall to the side, arms looping over Stiles’ shoulders. Stiles plays his fingers over Andrew’s sides, lightly teasing spots he knows are sensitive.

“You’re such a sweet-talker,” Andrew says, digging his fingers into Stiles’ hair as Stiles sucks lightly at his neck. “I’m still not leaving though.”

Stiles shrugs, sliding his free hand down Andrew’s side and leans back against the brick half wall, pulling Andrew’s hips against his.

“O.K. I’ll fuck you here.”

Andrew shivers.

“You’re just playing with me. You don’t want to have sex in public.”

Stiles shrugs in response and lets go of Andrew, bringing his cigarette back up to his lips.

“Suit yourself,” Stiles says and takes a drag. He watches Andrew process that. It takes all of five seconds for his face to turn red and his mouth to part. Stiles is way too good at this.

“We cannot have sex on my friend’s porch! Someone could drive by, a little old lady could be watching or, or—”

Stiles kisses him, blowing his cigarette smoke into Andrew’s mouth. When they part, Andrew breathes it out of his nose.

“Not fair. So not fair. That’s just cheating. You know I’m trying to quit.”

Stiles shrugs, unrepentant. Andrew chews on his lip.

“Two hours. If you can be civil for two hours longer, I’ll take you home and ride you like it’s the rodeo and I’m going for the gold, m’kay?”

Stiles ignores the ugly simile and presses his hips against Andrew, using his free hand to pull Andrew in. Andrew groans, rubbing himself against Stiles.

“Fine. An hour. One hour.”

Stiles loves winning.

 

“Andrew seems like a good kid,” Chris says, loading his clothes into the washer next to Stiles’, not making eye contact. Stiles shrugs.

“Guess so.”

“How long have you two been dating?”

Stiles pours detergent in the machine.

“A little while.”

Silence for a few moments.

“You like him?”

Stiles takes a big breath.

“Evidence would suggest so.”

“He seems… nice.”

Stiles snorts.

“Sure.”

Chris pauses, a clump of socks in his hand.

“He’s not?”

Stiles shrugs again and closes the washer lid, tired of this conversation.

“Good fuck. Talks too much.”

Chris laughs at that, this quick sudden noise. There’s something… off about it. Like maybe it’s forced.

“I never thought I’d ever hear you say someone talks too much.”

Stiles licks his lips, nervous.

“People change.”

Chris nods and _looks_ at Stiles.

“Yeah,” he says. “They do.”

Silence reins for the time it takes Chris to load the rest of his clothes. It’s Stiles that breaks it.

“How’d you like The Story of an Hour?”

Chris frowns, closing the lid.

“You were right; it is better than _The Awakening_. Definitely more powerful.”

Stiles nods and heads towards the Laundromat door, knowing Chris will follow.

“Lots of similar imagery. I thought the difference in the endings was really telling.”

Chris plucks a cigarette out of Stiles’ pack when he opens it. Stiles raises an eyebrow but says nothing about it.

“Yeah. She softened the death in _The Awakening_ and that took away from the message.”

Stiles nods and lights his cigarette.

“Last line is what really got me. It was cool how she showed just how society still viewed Louise even though she was more herself and more powerful after her husband’s death.”

Chris takes Stiles’ lighter and says nothing while he lights up. Stiles waits, watching Chris.

“I liked when she was chanting, ‘free.’ I got this image of her sort of holding her hands to her face and grinning, feet kicking and elated, you know?”

Stiles starts to laugh but chokes on the noise.

“That’s quite an image,” he says, smiling at Chris.

Chris smiles at Stiles then looks down, fidgeting with his cigarette. Stiles wonders when exactly Chris became a fidgeter.

“Not very dignified, though,” Stiles continues. “Louise Mallard is way too classy for that.”

Chris shrugs.

“Even the most dignified person can be turned into a toddler at life-changing news.”

Stiles smiles bitterly.

“Whether that be good news or bad?” Stiles asks.

Chris nods.

“Good or bad, we can all feel like children in the face of something much bigger than us.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also I have like three fucking chapters of this piece of shit written. That's a great buffer. Wondrous, yes.  
> I'm gonna go Internet now.


	5. In the Cold Light of Morning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tomorrow, As your skin starts to scratch, And wave yesterdays action goodbye.
> 
> Forget past indiscretions, And stolen possessions, You're high. In the cold light of day..
> 
> Tomorrow is only a kettle Whistle, Whistle, Whistle, Whistle, Whistle, Whistle, Whistle, Whistle, whistle, Away.. In the cold light of day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have a chapter, it's on the house.

“You missed our last session, Stiles. No call, no show.”

Stiles threads his fingers together and tries not to pick at them.

“Come on, Donald. That’s number two on the list. Avoidance?”

Donald sighs.

“Alright. I’ll accept that for now.”

Stiles nods.

“How have you been?”

Stiles shrugs.

“Not better. If anything, worse.”

“You know the saying it gets worse before it gets better? It applies to this as well.”

Stiles looks to the side, out the window. The trees are still. There’s no breeze. Everything is calm and peaceful, comfortable. Stiles can’t help but thinking it the calm before the storm.

“It’ll seem like everything is just terrible. The nightmares already started coming back. You may have episodes, you may have panic attacks or you might start feeling like it’s happening all over again. It’s natural. You just have to keep in mind that it will get better if you keep trying.”

Stiles smiles bitterly, leaning back as his leg starts to jiggle.

“So what you’re saying is that if I’m going through hell I should keep going?”

Donald nods. Stiles is disappointed he doesn’t get the reference.

“Yes, that exactly. The tsunami already happened, Stiles. This is just the wake. Yes, everything seems beyond repair but it’s not. You can build on top of it; make your world good again. Changed, but good.”

Stiles shakes his head.

“You know where the fault in that metaphor lies?”

“No. Where?”

“Natural disasters have this unpredictable habit of happening in the same places; Earthquakes on the west coast, hurricanes in Florida, Tsunamis in Japan…”

Donald takes a deep breath.

“You’re not landlocked, Stiles. You can change the geography of your circumstances. You can learn and grow and _move on._ ”

Stiles licks his lips.

“But the boogieman is always in my bed and there’s still monsters in my closet.”

Donald smiles like Stiles said something amazing. Stiles doesn’t agree.

“Until you turn on the light. The monster in your closet turns out to be mishung sweaters and the boogieman’s tentacles are lost socks. But you’ll never know this unless you get out from under the covers and turn on the lights.”

Stiles shakes his head and doesn’t answer. It’s been his experience that when he turns on the lights he finds out that the boogieman has been him all along.

 

_“Brandishing your cigar and your steel/ Laughing/ You will take them to the ocean/ To the last mermaid, / Seaweed and shark, merry whale, / End of flesh and hour and horror, / And you go on/ Toward your ocean, / The cigar biting your lips/ The way love used to.”_

Someone kicks Stiles’ foot and his heart rate sky-rockets. The book flies out of his hands before he can properly see who it is and he’s over the side of the couch and running for the door. He has to get out, get away. It’s not safe and they can get him. _He_ can get Stiles.

What’s his name again? He’s stronger than Scott, than Derek and Peter—fuck. Peter’s alive and he did it. He killed that girl and he wants Scott for his little fuzzy psychos club and Stiles has to—

“Stiles!”

Arms wrap around him. Trapped. He’s got him and he’s going to kill Stiles but, wait, that’s good right? Stiles went mad and murdered Derek’s sister. Stiles deserves it. He deserves worse than death. He killed her.

“Hey. Hey. It’s O.K. You’re Stiles. Just Stiles and no one else.”

A hand presses to Stiles’ neck, a thumbnail digs into the skin behind his ear and—Chris. It’s just Chris. Allison’s dad.

“No one else, you hear me? Stiles? Nod if you can hear me.”

Stiles slumps, stooping to press his face into Chris’ shoulder. His hand comes up and holds Chris’ hand where it is when Chris’ touch starts to lessen.

“You O.K.?”

Stiles shakes his head, gripping Chris’ shirt with his free hand.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

Stiles laughs, fingers digging in to Chris’ sides Chris says nothing, just herds Stiles back over to the couch. He tries to get Stiles to sit down but Stiles is having a hard time letting go.

And if that sentence doesn’t just sum Stiles up.

Chris has to pry Stiles’ fingers off of him. When Stiles no longer has anything to hold on to, his arms immediate hug himself, hands balled so that Stiles can’t tell if he’s shaking or not.

Chris sits down on the couch next to him and Stiles is infinitely glad that his work is so unpopular.

“Can I get you anything?”

Stiles smiles. It’s maybe only seventy-eight percent bitter.

“That’s my line.”

Chris huffs. Stiles uncurls his arms and counts. One, two, three, four, and a thumb. He does this again and again until he feels slightly more sure that everything is real.

“How’d you know?” Stiles pauses to clear his throat. “That would work?”

“I didn’t. Thought I’d give it a try.”

Stiles laughs, leaning back and covering his face with both hands.

“I need a smoke.”

Chris shifts in his seat next to Stiles.

“Should probably head outside for that.”

Stiles’ heartbeat goes back up a little but at the prospect of outside. Right now that’s not a thing he wants to know exists.

“Or I could vape it up.”

“You have one of those?” Chris asks, voice sounding surprised. Stiles shakes his head.

“There’s one on the counter for samples. Mostly goes unused.”

There’s movement next to Stiles as Chris gets up. Stiles watches him walk the distance between couch and counter through his fingers. Chris points at the cylinder on the counter and Stiles nods.

“Thanks,” Stiles says, taking the thing from him.

“Least I could do.”

Stiles snorts, depresses the button, and inhales. He breathes out vapor and thinks on how this just isn’t the same as an actual cigarette.

“That any good?” Chris asks, settling on the couch again. Stiles shrugs.

“It tastes like coffee.”

“Coffee is good.”

Stiles holds it out to Chris.

“Wanna?”

Chris shrugs and takes it from Stiles. It takes him a few seconds to figure it out. Stiles watches him wrap his lips around the mouthpiece where Stiles’ mouth had so recently been. He depresses the button and inhales, chest expanding, holds his breath, and exhales. Chris pulls a face.

“That,” he says, handing it back to Stiles. “Is truly awful.”

Stiles laughs and takes another hit.

“Not so bad once you get used to the aftertaste.”

Chris shakes his head, eyeing the vapor.

“That’s what they said about gimchi.”

Stiles blows vapor at Chris.

“Gimchi is delicious and good for you. Clearly, you have no sense of taste.”

“And you do? Smoking that?”

Chris smiles at Stiles, head hallowed by the abstract art behind his head: a swirl of deep blues and starbursts of glittery whites like a brilliant constellation on a dark sky.

 

The only thing Stiles hates more than having to go out and interact with people is when the people come to him. To see shoes pile up by his back door and coats insinuate themselves onto his racks, to have to hear his peaceful home fill up with the laughter and raucous chatter, is entirely unwelcome and discomfiting.

As is the sight of Lara dancing to Lady Gaga. Stiles had previously thought they’d all left that trend in high school but it’s reared its ugly head to show him its paws.

“Hhhhey, babyyyy,” Andrew slurs, sliding into Stiles’ lap. “How you doin’?”

Stiles grunts, repositioning himself around Andrew, holding his solo cup out of the way.

“Oooh, hey! What’re you drinking?”

Andrew snags the cup out of Stiles’ hand and takes a gulp while Stiles watches.

“Ugh. That’s the worst Bloody Mary ever.”

Stiles takes his cup back.

“That’s because it’s V8.”

Andrew scrunches his face up in a way Stiles is sure he thinks is cute.

“I’m dating a card holding AARP member.”

Stiles nods and takes a sip. Andrew squints at him.

“Bet you even have a Diner’s Club Card…”

Stiles shrugs and Andrew laughs.

“You do, don’t you? Oh my god you’re so old.”

Andrew takes Stiles’ solo cup and sets it on the trunk that acts as coffee table. Without anything to hold, Stiles settles his hands on Andrew, one on his lower back, other on his knee.

“So geriatric it makes _my_ hips hurt,” Andrew says, breathing vodka fumes onto Stiles’ face.

“I’ll make your hips hurt,” Stiles threatens, tightening his grip on Andrew’s knee and sliding his hand up. Andrew grins and runs his fingers down Stiles’ chest.

“Think you can get it up?”

Stiles stares at him until Andrew giggles and leans forward, pressing his forehead to Stiles’ temple.

“Hey, Stiles?”

Stiles grunts, watching Lara try to moonwalk.

“Who’s Scott?”

Stiles stiffens, heart thumping hard once against his ribs. How does Andrew know? Stiles never told him about Scott. He never so much as said his name in his presence.

“Was he… was he, like, an ex-boyfriend or something?”

Stiles glares at Andrew.

“How do you know that name?” Stiles asks in as even a tone as he can manage.

“I don’t know. You said something about him before?”

Stiles shakes his head, fingers clenching.

“No. No, I did not. How do you know that name?”

Andrew turns his head away from Stiles, biting his lip.

“I read some of your letters to him. I couldn’t help it.”

Stiles shakes his head, concentrating on breathing. He needs to get out of here. He can’t be near Andrew any longer. He can’t—he just can’t.

Stiles stands, dumping Andrew onto the floor. He squawks in indignation but Stiles ignores this. Instead, he heads for the door. Out. He needs out. Stiles shoves his way past people milling on the narrow basement stairs and explodes out the back door, immediately hanging a sharp left, feet taking him down the driveway.

“Stiles. Stiles!”

Andrew grabs Stiles’ arm and forces him to turn when Stiles is halfway across the lawn.

“I’m sorry? I didn’t mean to upset you.”

Stiles feels a muscle under his eye twitch and his hands fist. He’s breathing fast but it’s not helping.

“Of course you didn’t mean to, did you?”

Andrew deflates, this hurt look on his face.

“I’m sorry, OK? I didn’t know—”

“No, you didn’t. You didn’t know and you didn’t mean any harm, huh? You just wanted to know, right? You were just curious.”

Andrew frowns, nodding.

“You just… you keep so much to yourself and I saw them looking for Ed and, and I couldn’t help myself…”

Stiles feels nauseated. How much did he read? How much does he know?

“Are you satisfied now? Or do you need clarification? Is this where I tell you he was my best friend? Is this where I confess I messed up? That it was all my fault? Is this where I bare my soul to you with a touching hint of tears and detail to you how I killed his girlfriend?” Stiles hisses, jabbing his index finger at Andrew. “Should I tell you about how _hard_ it is to live with myself? How when I close my eyes I can still—I can still see _her_?”

Stiles stops, Andrew’s stricken face finally registering. He takes in a deep breath and presses his index finger to his mark.

“Stiles…”

Stiles shakes his head, teeth clenched.

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t know.”

Stiles digs his nails into his palms, fingers stiff.

“I didn’t—”

“ _Don’t you dare finish that sentence,”_ Stiles hisses. Andrew’s lips clap with how quick he shuts his mouth.

“I just wanted to know more about you.”

Stiles shakes his head, unable to determine whether he’s more disgusted with himself or Andrew.

“I hope it was worth it,” Stiles says and turns his back on Andrew, walking off across his neighbor’s yard. Andrew doesn’t follow.

 

Stiles spent a period of his life he doesn’t like to mention waking up in strange places and not knowing how he got there. It’s something he tries not to replicate as much as possible. Today, he has failed in this endeavor. Which is, Stiles thinks as he looks around the living room he’s never been in before, pretty par for the course.

It’s a nice place, if small. Everything in it is hard lines and open space. He sits up, frowning, and looks around, trying to figure out where he is and where his stuff is. It’s the picture on the mostly bare desk that solves it for him. Stiles pushes the navy blue blanket off and stands, staggering his way on cold feet to the picture.

Stiles holds out his hand but doesn’t touch. She’s smiling, eyes crinkled, teeth a dull white. Her eyes are looking right past the camera to who’s holding it, her mother’s arms tight around her shoulders. They’re standing at a cliff next to a beautiful waterfall, wet and happy looking.

“Abrams Falls. We cabined near there for my birthday.”

Stiles jumps and whirls around. Chris stands next to Stiles, staring at the picture with this blank look on his face. Stiles’s heart thuds in his chest as he wraps his arms around himself. His throat is dry and his head _hurts._ He swallows.

“I’m sorry.”

Chris shakes his head, looking at Stiles with this bitter smile.

“Vickie never liked it. Always teased me for being too stereotypical. Allison… Allison liked to try and climb the waterfalls. She always enjoyed having a bird’s eye view.”

Stiles feels sick. He did this. He took away everyone that Chris cared for. He put them in the ground.  Chris takes a big breath and a step back.

“How’re you feeling?”

Stile shrugs, queasy.

“There’s a rotten carpet in my mouth.”

Chris laughs.

“I’d imagine so. Pretty sure you consumed your weight in alcohol last night.”

Stiles tries to breath around the rising gorge in his throat. He’s sure he’s still a chatty drunk even though it’s been years since he last got too drunk to remember the night before.

“You remember any of it?”

Stiles shakes his head, rubbing his cold arms, wondering where his shirt went. Chris scratches at the back of his head.

“I found you in BJ’s. You were already pretty far-gone. I tried to take you home but you kept trying to jump out of the car. Wouldn’t tell me why.”

Stiles looks away, chewing on his tongue.

“Bad night,” he says, studying the vintage looking illustration of a crossbow on the wall. Chris nods.

“So you said.”

Stiles says nothing, thinking about what he does remember. On Andrew’s face before Stiiles walked away. He really is a piece of shit. Chris takes a step forward, touching Stiles’ elbow.

“What happened, Stiles?”

Stiles stares at where Chris’ palm lays over his skin. It’s warm and dry. Stiles shakes his head, taking a big breath.

“Nothing much.”

Chris smiles, ducks his head, and Stiles’ heart hurts because he now knows where she got that from.

“You know you have a tell?”

Stiles raises his eyebrows and looks at Chris.

“You breath.”

Stiles huffs.

“I’d hope so.”

Chris pulls on Stiles’ arm until his body is oriented towards him.

“When you’re trying not to say something, you breath in through your nose then let it out through your mouth. It’s not obvious but it’s there.”

Stiles says nothing and tries not to breathe.

It doesn’t work.

“Andrew read my letters. The ones I write and never send. I just—I got so _pissed_. I think I broke up with him. I should feel bad about that but I’m not. I just feel—violated. He read some deeply personal stuff and, and didn’t think it was a big deal.”

Stiles steps away from Chris and raises his hands to thread through his hair. He starts to pace and talk.

“He’s just so intrusive! I can’t go do a damn thing without him turning into the inquisition. Yeah, I like him all right but he gives me no privacy, no space. He calls every day, drops by unannounced everywhere. My work, my house, he even comes out and watching Mac and me when we’re doing our living statuary bit. He’s _everywhere._ ”

Stiles stops and takes a big breath. Chris is leaning against his desk, hands lightly gripping the edge, and watching Stiles.

“Am I just being a jerk or is it reasonable to want some time to myself?

“It’s not unreasonable to want space though it sounds like to me he’s just interested in you. As a … boyfriend should be.”

Chris scrapes his thumb across his eyebrow.

“You’re not exactly an open book, Stiles. It could be he just wants to know you netter.”

Stiles deflates, hugging himself.

“It was wrong of him to read your personal letters but what other options did he have?”

Stiles shakes his head, smiling.

“So it’s my fault.”

Chris shrugs.

“A little yours; a little his.”

Stiles takes in a big breath.

“Where’d my shirt go? My phone?”

Chris winces.

“The shirt is ruined. Phone is charging in the kitchen.”

Stiles nods in thanks and heads into the kitchen.

“I’ll lend you one of my shirts,” Chris calls. Stiles picks up his phone. Seven texts, five calls, three voicemails. All from Andrew.

[I’m sorry. Come back.]

[Stiles pick up ur phone.]

[R u ok?]

[Just tell me ur alright.]

[Ur starting to wrry me.]

[A single letter response wuld work.]

[Anything. Please Stiles.]

“Here.”

Stiles takes the shirt from Chris.

“Thanks.”

Stiles pulls on the shirt. It’s a little tight across the chest but it’ll do.

“You have my wallet and stuff?”

Stiles waits patiently for a response. Chris is staring at Stiles’ chest. Stiles looks down. There’s nothing on him.

“Chris?”

Chris takes in a sudden breath.

“Yeah. It’s all on the table by the door,” he says, eyes now fixed on the window above the kitchen sink.

“Gonna call Andrew,” Stiles tells him, nerves fluttering in his stomach. Chris nods, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his pajama pants. Stiles makes his way outside, picking up his smokes, lighter, wallet, and headphones. He stops on the steps that lead up to Chris’ apartment. Stiles knows this complex. It’s about five miles from his house.

“Hey, Stiles. Look, I’m sorry. Please call me.”

Stiles lights up a cigarette as he listens to his voicemails. It’s cheerily muggy outside.

“I just want to know that you’re OK. Call me.”

“It’s Andrew. Again. Please call me when you get this.”

Stiles hits the call back button. It rings twice. Stiles winces. Andrew was waiting.

“Jesus, Stiles. Are you O.K.?”

Stiles blows out smoke.

“Yeah. ‘m Fine.”

“You never came home. Where’d you go?”

“Friend’s place. Sorry.”

Andrew sighs over the line.

“It’s alright. It was my fault. Where are you? I can come pick you up?”

Stiles smiles around the butt of his cigarette.

“Chris’. Off Utz.”

It’s silent over the line.

“You went to Chris?”

Stiles ashes into the bush next to him.

“Went to BJ’s. Chris’ after.”

“What did you two do all night?”

Stiles shrugs.

“Dunno. Got drunk. Can’t remember.”

“You fuck him?”

Stiles frowns, not knowing where that came from.

“No.”

“You sure?”

“Don’t remember much. Don’t think that happened.”

“Really being reassuring here, Stiles.”

Stiles sighs, dangling his cigarette from his lips.

“I didn’t fuck him. Why would you ask that?”

“I don’t know,” Andrew says, sounding frustrated and hurt. “Maybe because I found you two all cuddled up on the couch. Maybe because of the way he looks at you.”

Stiles takes in a deep breath, head pounding more by the word.

“He doesn’t look at me in any particular way.”

“Yeah. Right, Stiles. I know you’re not that thick.”

Stiles refrains from sighing again.

“Don’t you even start with that, Stiles. I know when someone wants to fuck and he looks at you like you’re the dream prom dress he’s wanted to wear since he was thirteen.”

A muscle in Stiles’ jaw twitches.

“Andrew?”

“What?”

“Chris had a wife and daughter when I met him.”

Andrew scoffs.

“Like either of us has never met a married man that wanted something young and male on the side.”

Stiles breathes, tries to keep it inside.

“Where is that wife and daughter now, huh? He tell you why they’re not there?”

Fuck it. Fuck Andrew.

“His wife committed suicide and I killed his daughter.”

“ _Shit_. Stiles, I didn’t—”

“Never talk to me again, Andrew.”

Stiles hangs up, breathing heavy. He doubts he’ll regret that later.

“Stiles?”

Stiles looks up. He’s wearing a fitted pair of slacks and a dress shirt, a bag hanging from his hand.

“What’re you doing here?”

Stiles flicks his cigarette into the manicured lawn in front of him.

“Breaking up with my boyfriend.”

Stiles watches the crow’s feet at the corner of his eyes deepen as he smiles.

“Want me to help with that?”

Stiles chews on his lip and looks over his shoulder at Chris’ front door. Paul waits on the walkway. Stiles doesn’t know why Andrew acted that way. There’s nothing between him and Chris.

“Yeah. Sure,” Stiles says, standing. Paul leads the way down the sidewalk to his door.

Forty-five minutes later, Paul is gripping Stiles’ hips, helping him fuck himself on Paul’s dick while Paul lets out a litany of perverted things he wants to do to Stiles. Stiles grips the headboard, biting his lip and snaps his hips as he tries not to think about what Andrew said about Chris.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Incidentally, I might not put another one up for like more than a week. I'll be traveling for a few odd days and might not care about y'all then. We'll see. You should know I often lie but whether or not the lie is in your favor has yet to be discerned.


	6. Nancy Boy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Alcoholic kind of mood  
> lose my clothes, lose my lube  
> cruising for a piece of fun  
> looking out for number one  
> different partner every night  
> so narcotic outta sight  
> what a gas, what a beautiful ass."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, look! It's the Internet... Hi Internet!

“Andrew and I broke up,” Stiles says around his Five Guys burger. Dad chews slowly then swallows.

“What happened? Thought you liked him.”

Stiles takes a sip of his coke while he thinks on how to answer that. It’s funny how things have changed. It took two years and Dad finding him in flagrante with his next-door neighbor’s son for Dad to accept that, yes, Stiles does like the D. Now, he doesn’t even blink over the news.

“He went through some personal things of mine then accused me of cheating.”

Dad’s eyebrows rise and he sets his burger down.

“Did you?”

Stiles shakes his head. He should be insulted his dad would even ask that but Stiles has done things a lot worse than infidelity.

“No. Never even thought about it. Especially not with who he thought.”

Dad leans back in his inoffensive lobby chair, chewing on a mouthful of fries.

“Yeah? Who?”

Stiles prods at his burger, suddenly fascinated with it.

“Chris Argent.”

Dad chokes on his fries and leans forward, coughing.

“Why would he even know who that was?”

Stiles pulls a mushroom out from under the bun and chews on it.

“Stiles…”

Stiles swallows.

“Because Chris Argent lives in Saint Louis.”

“When did that happen? Did he find you? He isn’t… _harassing_ you, is he?”

Stiles shakes his head.

“Elaborate.”

Stiles takes a big breath and fidgets with the straw in his cup, pulling it out and pushing it back in.

“He moved really close to me. We go to the same Laundromat. He was just as surprised to see me as I was him.”

It’s silent for a little while. Stiles thinks on how Tuesday is coming up and how he won’t be able to avoid Chris there.

“Are you sure it wasn’t on purpose?”

Stiles nods, mostly sure of his answer.

“There isn’t—” Dad leans in, looking around the empty lobby as if to double check that no one is listening. “There isn’t something _weird_ going on, is there?”

Stiles frowns at his dad. Even he thinks Chris wants to do naughty sweaty things with Stiles.

“I’m not fucking Chris.”

Dad rolls his eyes.

“I meant more along the lines of werewolves and bansidhe weird, Stiles.”

Stiles’ face feels hot. He diverts his eyes down to his straw where he’s still pushing it in and out and in and out.

“No. Nothing like that. He’s retired.”

Dad nods and picks up his burger.

“Good. Oh, and Stiles?”

Stiles looks up, eyebrows raised.

“Don’t, ah, _do_ Chris Argent.”

Stiles just stares at him. Dad bites into his burger and smiles at Stiles.

 

“They’re getting worse. I’m dreaming about it every night,” Stiles says picking at a hangnail on his thumb. It comes off in one long stripe, taking with it some live skin. It stings but doesn’t bleed.

“What’re you dreaming about, Stiles?”

Stiles shakes his head and starts on the next hangnail.

“It won’t get better unless you talk about it.”

Stiles sighs, scratching at the tag of dead skin.

“It. Beacon Hills.”

“What about Beacon Hills?”

Stiles pinches the hangnail between right index and thumb nail and pulls.

“I dream about killing them, watching her die. I dream about listening to them scream.”

This hangnail does bleed when he pulls it off. It stings, his thumb throbs. It’s familiar, soothing.

“How much of the massacres did you see?”

Stiles takes in a deep breath, pinching his thumb until the blood gathers and starts to drip down and gather in the divot of his nail, sliding along the border until his nail has a rust colored frame.

“Most of them. The aftermath of the ones I didn’t see firsthand.”

“Do you think it’s your fault?”

Stiles nods.

“It’s why we left. I couldn’t take staying there, seeing all that destruction, looking into the wreckage of once-happy people. My dad thought it was best.”

“Did you agree with him?”

Stiles shrugs, bringing his thumb up to his mouth.

“Probably,” he says and licks the blood away. It tastes just as bitter as he feels. He is made of nothing but bitterness. Donald takes in a deep breath.

“I have homework for you.”

Stiles raises his eyebrows.

“Think I’ve outgrown homework.”

Donald snorts.

“Write a list. Five good things that happened or were in Beacon Hills.”

Stiles takes in a deep breath.

“Don’t know if I can do that many.”

Donald stares at Stiles, unamused.

“Fine. Make it ten.”

Stiles’ mouth twitches.

“You’re a terrible person.”

“So my teenager says.”

Stiles laughs. It hurts a little. He feels old and tired.

 

There’s something soothing about cleaning the cappuccino machine; all the little pieces that come off soiled that only takes the swipe of a cloth to make shiny appeals to Stiles. He can only wish to be as easy to clean. He watches the rag in his hand mold to the steel contours and brush away milk foam, coffee grounds, and finger grease with ease.

“He’s kind of cute,” one patron whispers to the guy next to her. They are unaware that Stiles can hear them, that the headphones he has in are just for show. The coffee shop he works in carries sound fantastically.

“If you think so then why not go flirt with him?”

The girl shakes her head, leaning over her Green Eye.

“You know I meant for you,” she says. The guy bites his lip. Stiles taps coffee grounds into the discard bin.

“I don’t know if he even goes for guys.”

Stiles considers it. The guy is attractive in a young Idra Elba sort of way.

“Ask him for his number then. Flirt! I know you know how…”

“But what if he’s not into me?”

Stiles reattaches the now clean parts back into their proper places on the cappuccino machine.

“Then it will be awkward for all of five seconds and we can leave and never come back you big baby.”

The guy doesn’t flirt with Stiles or ask for his number but when Stiles gives him a refill he slips his name and number onto a napkin and puts it under his cup.

An hour later the guy is back sans friend.

“Hey.”

Stiles tucks the rag he was using to wipe down tables into the front of his jeans and pulls his headphones out.

“Hi.”

“I’m, um, I’m Todd.”

Todd sucks on his bottom lip. Stiles watches it pop back out of his mouth wet and plump.

“Did you hear me and my friend talking?”

Stiles nods. Todd looks down at his shoes then back up.

“You know it’s not polite to eavesdrop.”

Stiles folds up his headphones and stuffs them into his front pocket. Todd’s eyes follow his hand.

“Also not polite to stare at your server’s crotch.”

Todd laughs.

It’s silent.

“Wanna fuck?”

Stiles nods then leads the way into the reconstruction era basement they use for storage.

“You don’t have, like, _jungle fever_ , do you?”

Stiles shakes his head and pushes Todd against the wall.

“No. Just dick fever.”

Todd laughs. Stiles drops to his knees and spends the next fifteen minutes trying to see what noises he can get Todd to make. They echo around the mostly empty basement.

 

It’s strange how so many places in Stiles’ life can be turned from sanctuary to purgatory in less than a day. Every clang from an old washer unit makes Stiles jump, every footstep is approaching danger, and every time the Laundromat door opens is a chance for confrontation. He’s hyper-aware of every little thing that happens. It’s the opposite of relaxing. Stiles can’t stand it. Though it’s not until he steps outside for a smoke to calm his irrationally unsettled nerves that it happens.

“You left in a hurry.”

Stiles inhales suddenly in the middle of exhaling and chokes on smoke. He bends over, hacking, eyes watering. Chris waits until Stiles is done coughing out what remains of his soul onto the sidewalk before speaking again.

“You O.K.?”

Stiles wonders why people keep asking him that.

“Yeah,” Stiles says, wiping tears from his eyes.

“I take it you got back together with Andrew.”

Stiles frowns, confused.

“Huh?”

Chris gestures at Stiles’ neck. Stiles automatically reaches up and touches the hickey there. He’d forgotten how overzealous the rando he’d fucked last night had gotten. Stiles isn’t a big fan of hickeys. They just seem kind of tasteless to him.

“Not Andrew.”

Chris raises his eyebrows. Stiles stares back and takes a drag of his cigarette. It’s no one’s business who he fucks anymore.

“New boyfriend?”

Stiles shakes his head in the negative. Chris’ lips purse briefly.

“So you did break up.”

Stiles nods, takes a breath, and looks away, remembering that Chris knows it’s a tell.

“I brought your shirt. The tears were easy enough to mend but I don’t know if the stains will all come out.”

Stiles drops his cigarette on the ground and crushes it with his foot.

“Thanks.”

Stiles doesn’t know what exactly he’s thanking Chris for. The shirt, the company, not talking about Stiles sleeping around, or not treating Stiles like he is the piece of shit that murdered his daughter.

“Here, I brought you something,” Chris says, reaching into his jacket pocket. “A Doll’s House: A play by Henrik Ibsen.”

Stiles takes the playbook from him and nods.

“I’ve read this. It’s good.”

“Oh. I didn’t know.”

Chris sounds disappointed as he reaches out to take it back. Stiles cradles it to his chest.

“It’s been years. I could reread it?”

Chris lets his hands drop to his sides and nods.

“Alright.”

He might know Stiles is humoring him but if he does he plays along.

“So, it didn’t go well with Andrew?”

Stiles shakes his head and lights up another cigarette.

“That bad, huh?”

Stiles nods, eyeing the guy walking into the liquor store next door to the Laundromat.

“What happened?”

Stiles French inhales.

“A fight.”

Chris fidgets, eyeing Stiles like he’s doing long division in his head.

“Did you start it?”

Stiles shakes his head, blowing smoke out of his nose.

“What was it about?” Chris asks. Stiles takes another drag on his cigarette to mask his breathing. He’s tired of this topic. He’s tired of talking. Stiles doesn’t understand anymore how people can do it all the time. Stiles exhales smoke.

“He accused me of fucking you.”

Stiles brings his cigarette up to his mouth and tries not to look too interested in Chris’ reaction. Chris goes completely still as if Stiles were a dinosaur intending to swallow him whole. Several seconds go by in which the only movement is cars going by and Stiles smoking.

Finally, Chris moves, raising his hand up to scrape his thumb across his eyebrow and smiles.

“Very funny, Stiles.”

Stiles just stares at Chris, more than a little confused.

“We didn’t fuck, did we?”

Chris takes a shuffling step backwards, looks away. His cheeks are pink.

“No, we didn’t… do that.”

Stiles squints his eyes in concentration and holds his cigarette to his lips.

“No fucking, sucking, kissing, or groping?”

The pink travels down Chris’ neck as he shakes his head, thumb scratching his brow again. Stiles takes another drag of his cigarette before dropping it and stubbing it out with his foot.

“Wanna know something funny?”

Chris looks at Stiles, eyes narrowed in suspicion or confusion.

“What?”

“You have a tell, too.”

Chris’ eyes divert from Stiles.

“You scratch right here,” Stiles says, raising his fingers to touch Chris’ eyebrow. “With your thumb.”

Chris stills, lips parted. The picture of shock. Stiles flees into the Laundromat, heart thudding in his chest.

 

Stiles is Sandy, frozen in place with one hand on Mac’s shoulder, the other akimbo, one knee cocked forward, eyes fixed on Mac’s greased hair. His skintight blank pants stick to the back of his knees and the only color to him is the strap of his open toe heals and his red hoop earrings. Even the wig he’s wearing has been powdered a colorless gray.

A woman dressed like she belongs in Soho not Tower Grove Park drops a bill in their tip model T-Bird car. Stiles and Mac shimmy their upper bodies in synch back and forth for a few seconds, mouthing the words from a movie so iconic it’s become background noise.

“You better shape up,” Stiles mouths, leaning into Mac. “Because I need a man.”

They freeze. The wind blows across Stiles’ back, shifting a few flyaways from the wig. They stay like that and wait. On the tip of Stiles’ tongue is the next line, “And my heart is set on you.”

A deluge of rain comes down from the mostly blue sky, clouds churning, darkening as lightning sprints across the heavens before Stiles can mouth the words. Mac and him run towards the closest pavilion to escape before their make up is completely ruined.

Stiles sets down their tip car, panting and pulls his smokes out of it.

“Damn. That was _so_ not in the forecast,” Mac says, hands smoothing her hair back into place. Stiles watches rainwater wash color back into her cheeks one trickle at a time. It’s strangely beautiful. He leans against a pillar and lights up.

“So you and Andrew not a thing anymore?”

Stiles puffs on his cigarette and wonders why no one can find anything else to talk about. He nods.

“That’s rough, man-friend.”

Stiles shrugs. Mac groans.

“You gotta stop sleeping with people from places I like to go. First the London Tea Room and now Mokabe’s. In fact, just stay away from awesome cafes.”

Stiles gives Mac a look. She grins at him.

“Just for that I’m fucking the whole staff of Kaldi’s.”

Mac laughs and shoves Stiles.

“That’s cruel, bro. I need my tea!”

Stiles bumps his shoulder into Mac’s, glad that they’re on the same page as far as Stiles being an asshole goes.

 

“Please tell me this isn’t a telemarketer.”

Stiles snorts.

“It’s Stiles. You busy?”

Paul hums over the line.

“A little but nothing I can’t put aside.”

Stiles holds his phone to his ear with his shoulder as he locks his back door.

“You want to come over?” Paul asks.

“Was thinking about it.”

Stiles can hear Paul smile over the phone.

“You mean you were thinking about sucking my cock while I grade essays, too?”

Stiles huffs.

“Or getting fucked over the couch. Whatever.”

Paul chuckles, sure of himself.

“I think I can do that.”

Stiles takes off across the lawn towards Washington.

“Fifteen minutes.

He expects Paul’s response.

“Pretty sure I can last that long.”

Stiles is not disappointed. 

 

He wakes up in a bed with generic white sheets and a forest green blanket. There’s no one next to him. Stiles feels pleasantly sore in the best places possible. He takes a moment to stretch then sits up. There’s a pair of loose pajama pants on the foot of the bed and no shirt. Stiles nearly rolls his eyes at Paul’s overt efforts to keep Stiles as naked as possible while he pulls on the pajama pants.

Stiles checks the bathroom, the living room, the kitchen. There’s no one here. Stiles doesn’t worry. Paul is normal. Or as normal as an English professor who occasionally fucks ex-students can be. Stiles grabs his smokes off of the coffee table and steps outside.

Paul is there, sitting at his patio set for two with two cups of coffee, a few scones and muffins from Bread Co in front of him.

“Morning, Sunshine.”

Stiles grunts in response. Paul leans back in his chair.

“Is someone grumpy this fine morning?”

Stiles frowns at him, peeved. Paul grins.

“It’s because I wasn’t there when you woke up, huh?”

Stiles glares at him, crossing his arms.

“Don’t be like that. I bought you a muffin…”

Stiles stares, unimpressed. Paul laughs.

“Geeze, kiddo. If I knew how much you liked waking up to my dick I wouldn’t have left to feed you.”

Silence. Paul shakes his head, smiling.

“I can make it up to you, alright? Fuck you over a table. I know how much you like that.”

Stiles waits a few seconds, deciding, then walks over to Paul, easily straddling his lap. Paul smiles, hands on Stiles’ sides.

“Now that’s the spirit, boy.”

Stiles loops his arms around Paul’s neck and kisses him. Paul hums cheerily and kisses back, hands sliding down to grab Stiles’ ass, pulling him in. Stiles grinds himself against Paul. He kisses Stiles slowly, insinuating his tongue between Stiles’ lips. Stiles sucks at it lightly, fingers gripping Paul’s salt and pepper hair.

“It’s funny how the only part of you that’s a morning person is that perky ass of yours,” Paul murmurs, lightly spanking one of Stiles’ ass cheeks. Stiles makes a little noise, pressing his open mouth against Paul’s jaw. Paul chuckles, squeezing Stiles’ ass and rolling his hips up into him. Stiles moves in concert, head falling back as Paul mouths at Stiles’ throat. It’s only chance that Stiles’ eyes focus on Chris, standing stalk still ten feet away, grocery bags hanging from his hands.

Paul scrapes his teeth over Stiles’ peck, hands digging into the flesh of Stiles’ ass and spreading his cheeks open. Stiles inhales sharply, body contorting to grind his dick into him and offering his ass to Paul’s forward fingers. His head snaps down to fix on Paul’s mouth as it moves across Stiles’ chest.

Stiles feels his cheeks heat up, knowing that Chris can see him like this: shirtless and wearing someone else’s pajamas, spread over Paul’s lap like a slattern.

Paul slides his hands down under Stiles and heaves, picking Stiles up while he stands. Stiles wraps his legs around him and tightens his arms. Paul kisses Stiles wetly, walking them to the door. Stiles reaches back with one hand, fumbling for the doorknob, unbelievably turned on. He wriggles against Paul as he turns the knob, glad that he’s taller than Stiles and strong. Paul kicks the door shut behind them and pushes Stiles against it.

They fuck there. All Stiles can think of is the look on Chris’ face right before the door shut.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I cannot get over how fun it is to write this.


	7. Taste In Men

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It's not only what we have inherited from our father and mother that walks in us. It's all sorts of dead ideas, and lifeless old beliefs, and so forth. They have no vitality, but they cling to us all the same, and we can't get rid of them.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know about you peeps but I am getting hella impatient with how slow the story is going. FUCK ALREADY. Shit, it's not that hard. 
> 
> .... Maybe that's the problem, though.  
> Haaaaaaa. I made a penis joke.

_He’s standing in a circle of bodies._

_They’re layered over each other like flower petals, crisp red like chrysanthemums with wide, sightless eyes. The lights flicker and Stiles smiles, oni pacing around the boundary of body. This is his. He and he alone caused this: pain, destruction, chaos, death._

_Lydia screams soundlessly on her knees with Allison’s corpse in her arms. The elevator doors shut on them and it’s just Stiles in the woods, moon full and, wolves howling in mourning, lost to the Wild Hunt. Chris Argent kneels in front of him, the hunter dishonored. Stiles smiles, scalpel in hand._

_Fluorescents flicker and Chris has a red crown. It drips down his face and into his wide, shocked eyes. He leans back, prostrate. Stiles moves in, grabs his hair and pulls until Chris whimpers._

_“I’m going to carve your heart out,” Stiles croons before slipping the blade like a lover between Chris’ ribs as he moans Stiles’ name._

Stiles opens his eyes. Small, cold paws move across his cheek, a little tongue laps at the sweat on his forehead. He carefully rolls onto his side, pulling Al off of his face and against his chest. He wriggles until Stiles scratches his ears.

Little rat bodies crawl over him. Stiles lies there and shakes.

 

His cigarette burns, untouched in his hand as Stiles stares at the blank page in front of him. The only thing he’s managed to write is, “Ten Things.”

Stuck on repeat is Lydia; strawberry hair swirling in the breeze as her breathes fog. She’s cheering on Jackson, sign high above her head.

Lydia with her hand raised in class. She has the answers and knows it.

Lydia in her prom dress, corsage on her wrist.

Stiles used to worship her. Used to dream that she’d _look_ at him. He wonders what happened.

Lydia lying on the lacrosse field, bleeding out into the grass, little pained noises leaving her mouth. Stiles has her blood on his hands.

Kids scream, running past Stiles’ house. He starts, dropping his cigarette. It falls into the folds of his shirt. Stiles ignores it until it burns a hole in his shirt and brands his skin. Absently, he plucks it out of his clothes and tosses it into his neighbor’s yard.

A robin flies out of the tree next to him and up into the clump of twigs and dry grass that must be its nest on the gutter. Stiles watches its tail flick as it rearranges debris.

He lights up a cigarette and watches it work for the nest half hour.

 

_I believe that before anything else I'm a human being -- just as much as you are... or at any rate I shall try to become one. I know quite well that most people would agree with you, Torvald, and that you have warrant for it in books; but I can't be satisfied any longer with what most people say, and with what's in books. I must think things out for myself and try to understand them._

“Look at this, just lazing about while I’m out earning the bacon.”

Stiles’ head snaps up. Topher stands at the bottom of the stairs, grinning with a rucksack at his feet.

“If I knew you were coming, I would have prettied myself up.”

Topher shakes his head, arms akimbo.

“All you’re good for is looking pretty.”

Stiles sets his book down on the trunk-coffee table.

“Also pretty good at cock-sucking.”

Topher laughs and bounds over to Stiles, landing on him. Stiles wheezes and shoves at Topher.

“Get your fat ass off me.”

Topher boxes Stiles’ ears, bouncing on Stiles’ stomach.

“Come on, fairy! Fight like a man!”

Stiles laughs and rolls them onto the floor. They wrestle until Topher accidentally kicks Stiles in the mouth, splitting his lip.

“Dude, shit! Are you alright?”

Stiles spits blood at him and laughs as Topher shouts, crab-walking away from Stiles. He sits against the rat cage and stares down at his shirt.

“Thanks, bro. Now I’m gonna catch the gay.”

Stiles shakes his head, hand at his mouth. It hurts, he’s had worse.

“My evil plot is revealed,” Stiles says in a dry voice.

Topher snickers.

“Hey,” he says, looking up at Stiles, a serious and confused look on his face. “How come this isn’t glitter? I thought all you gays bled glitter ‘n’ rainbows.”

Stiles stretches his leg out and kicks Topher’s shin.

“Ow,” Topher laughs out. “You’re mean. You mean old queen.”

Stiles lurches forward, grabs Topher’s ankles, and drags him onto the ground. He pins him and opens his mouth, dribbling blood and spit. Topher flails, pushing on Stiles’ face.

“You’re so gross!”

Stiles laughs, letting Topher push him over.

“Says the guy who cleans his toenails at the kitchen counter.”

Topher smacks Stiles on the chest and they lay there, staring at the ceiling.

“Wanna smoke?”

Stiles nods and sits up. They help each other stand then make their way upstairs and outside. Stiles takes a seat on the park bench they stole the last time Topher was in town.

“How’s tricks, Stilinski?”

Stiles shrugs, lighting his cigarette. Topher snags it from Stiles as soon as it’s lit. Stiles glares and pulls out another. His lip stings from the movement but it’s nothing he can’t deal with. Topher leans back, hands behind his head, and kicks his feet up onto the bench, pushing his toes into Stiles’ thigh.

“That bad, huh?” he asks, puffing out smoke. Stiles shrugs again.

“It’s SNAFU.”

Topher laughs.

“You should come with a warning label.”

Stiles blows out smoke rings above his head.

“Warning: FUBAR cockslut with a love of starting bar brawls.”

Stiles punches Topher’s knee.

“ _Twice._ It was just twice.”

Topher grins, cigarette pinched between his teeth.

“At least that much a month.”

Stiles rolls his eyes and ashes on Topher’s lap. Topher brushes the ashes off without word.

“Staying all summer?” Stiles asks, lifting his shirt to wipe the blood on his face off.

“Nah. Gonna ride the waters down from NorCall for three weeks next month. Then I’m going to Cabo to perv on little old ladies.”

Stiles nods, wondering how Topher can bare to go to California.

“Wanna go climbing tomorrow?”

“Sure.”

They sit there quietly for a while. Stiles watches two robins flit from perch to perch, twittering.

 

If Stiles knew how many times he’s handed in homework to receive disappointed looks he’d know exactly how much of a failure he is instead of having to guess about it.

“There’s nothing on this.”

“Sure there is,” Stiles says, taking his regular seat across from Donald. “Right there at the top.”

Donald sighs and sets the paper to the side.

“You couldn’t think of one good thing?”

Stiles shakes his head, tonguing his split lip.

“Really?”

“Well,” Stiles says, resting his elbows on his knees. “There was Scott, my best friend, but I murdered his girlfriend. I thought about putting Lydia down but she kinda went insane and lost her best friend and two of her boyfriends. Erica’s dead. Boyd’s dead. Derek was an asshole—his whole family’s dead by the way. Isaac was orphaned and turned into a—douche. Peter was a creepy pedo-zombie, and Heather was also murdered…” Stiles tapers out, voice steady but throat hurting. Donald leans forward, hands clasped together.

“You witnessed a lot of bad things, Stiles. A lot of terrible, awful things.”

Stiles looks down at his hands. There’s an unusual growth of nail on his left index finger. He picks at it.

“I’m not going to tell you to forget that. I know you can’t. But I want you to not consider it when you make this list. Don’t think about the bad that came later, just think about the things that made you happy at the time.”

Stiles looks up at him.

“What if I can’t remember if I was ever actually happy there? What if I can’t think of anything good that came out of Beacon Hills?”

Donald passes Stiles a notebook and pen.

“Try to. That’s all I ask: Just try.”

 

The sky is dark, thunder rumbles distantly, and lightning flashes in clouds a few miles from Stiles. A storm is knocking on his door but Stiles isn’t inside. He’s crouched down in front of the Laundromat, smoking. He’s been outside the whole time. The fluorescents are making him uneasy, reminding him of things he’d rather not think on. Stiles could barely stay in there long enough to switch his sheets into the dryer.

Movement in the corner of his eye catches his attention. Stiles watches Chris take his basket of clothes inside. He looks away, fixing his eyes on where the sky flickers with lightning. A few minutes go by in which Stiles feels his shoulders tense. He smokes his cigarette down to the butt and immediately lights another.

The Laundromat door opens again. Stiles’ shoulders hurt and it has started to sprinkle a little. Even with years of experience, Stiles can’t tell if the storm is going to be bad or not. It’s a talent he simply doesn’t have.

Chris sits down next to Stiles. It’s silent long enough for lightning to flash and thunder to follow.

“So, my neighbor?”

Stiles nods, exhaling smoke.

“Did you just think, ‘Hey, he seems like he’d be convenient’?”

Stiles breathes in the words he feels building in his chest. It’s none of Chris’ business who Stiles fucks.

“Seriously?”

Stiles sighs. Why did he have to be such a creature of habit? Thursdays could be laundry day. He could be cleaning rat shit right now instead of talking to Chris.

“I know him. Just coincidence.”

Chris looks at Stiles, supremely unimpressed.

“What? You bumped in to him and decided to give him a hello lap dance half-naked at nine in the morning?”

Stiles sighs again.

“No. Was thinking I was bored and horny and he’s strong enough to pick me up.”

Chris’ eyebrows make a valiant run for his hairline.

“Pick you up?”

Stiles takes a drag of his cigarette, holds, and then exhales, nodding.

“I liked to be fucked against walls ‘n’ it’s hard to find a guy strong enough to hold me up. Not exactly five-five a buck twenty.”

Chris says nothing. Stiles doesn’t revel in the silence like he thought he would. He tries to breath the words he feels like saying.

“That wasn’t a lap dance, by the way. I’m much better at those than that.”

If Chris were Paul he’d invite Stiles to dance on his lap. They’d get into his car and Stiles would ride his dick until Chris said, “ _Jesus, Boy,_ ” and came with a final smack to Stiles’ ass. But Chris isn’t Paul. It’s not that easy, that simple.

Chris snorts and shakes his head.

“That’s hardly the point here, Stiles.”

Stiles takes another drag and studies his burning cigarette.

“The point is it’s not your business, _Chris._ I’m not fucking you, _am I?”_

Silence. Stiles counts the seconds. He makes it to nine before Chris speaks.

“No,” he says quietly. “You’re not.”

Stiles doesn’t know what to do with that response. Doesn’t know what to do about not knowing if Chris lied; if they had sex or kissed or groped or said pervy things to each other fueled by alcohol and shared memories.

 

Stiles has always loved dirty talk. He finds it the one facet of language that always has the ability to keep his attention and ensnare him. If it now tends to be much more one-sided than it used to be then that’s just fine. The problem comes in when whoever his current partner is becomes discouraged by Stiles’ lack of verbal participation. This has never been a problem with Paul.

“Look at you. All flushed with spread legs. You like my fingers, don’t you?”

Stiles bites his lip and closes his eyes, fisting the sheets in his hands. Paul chuckles.

“Just not as much as my cock, huh? You like my dick, don’t you?”

Stiles lifts his hips and nods.

“You dirty boy,” Paul says, bending down to teeth over Stiles’ inner thigh. His fingers move slowly inside of Stiles and he wants it. He wants to be fucked properly: hard and fast with his knees over Chris’ shoulders as he whispers the dirty things he’s going to do to Stiles in his ear.

Paul pulls his fingers out and crawls up Stiles’ body. He lines his cock up against Stiles’ hole.

“You ready for daddy’s dick?” Paul asks, voice dark and heavy. Stiles’ cock jumps involuntarily. He wraps his legs around Paul.

“Yeah, you are. You’re just _eager_ for it.”

Stiles gives no indication of his agreement, just concentrates on the back of his eyelids, on the cock moving inside him. He digs his fingers into Paul’s shoulders and tries not to think.

 

Stiles is nearly falling asleep, head pillowed on Paul’s bicep. He’s fucked out and floating high on endorphins as Paul absently traces his fingers up and down Stiles’ abs. This is the time in which Stiles is free from his mind, where he doesn’t think about much at all. It’s the closest he ever gets to peace.

His phone goes off, blaring loudly in the quiet. Paul groans and rolls away. Stiles slides across the bed to hang his body off of it. With one hand bracing him on the floor so he doesn’t fall, Stiles pulls his phone out of his pocket. It’s Mac. Stiles frowns.

“What?” he asks, voice rough.

“Where are you?”

“Paul’s.”

Mac sighs.

“Dude, please tell me you remember today is our coffee day.”

Stiles is silent. He’d forgotten they were going to go to Kaldi’s today to decide on who to be next week. Paul’s hand slides across Stiles’ ass and between his legs. Stiles absently spreads them just a little.

“Damnit, Stiles. I know you have a daddy kink and all – which makes no sense, by the way, cause your dad is like the best dad ever – but it’s no excuse to forget important things. Like me. I’m important.”

Stiles nods, biting his lip as Paul ghosts lips across Stiles’ sore and probably red ass cheek.

“Yeah, I’m sorry. I forgot. I’ll head there soon as I can.”

Mac huffs.

“Don’t bother. I’ll come pick you up. I was already at your house anyway.”

Stiles clenches his teeth to keep from making a noise when Paul nips at Stiles’ sore skin.

“Kay. See you soon.”

“You are so buying my drink today…”

Stiles hangs up and drops his phone, groaning as Paul smacks Stiles’ ass.

“You got time for one more?” Paul asks, kissing the back of Stiles’ thigh.

“No,” Stiles responds and sighs, letting himself fall onto the floor. Stiles sits up and sorts out his clothes. His jeans and underwear are fine but his shirt is ruined, all the buttons popped off, one of the sleeves torn. Stiles pulls on his jeans and underwear then stands up to button them.

“I’m taking a shirt. You ruined mine.”

Paul rolls onto his back, folding his hands behind his back.

“Does this mean we’re going steady?”

Stiles snorts, shaking his head, and walks over to Paul’s closet. He takes a shirt at random, knowing he won’t find one that fits anyway. Stiles pulls it on but doesn’t bother buttoning it immediately.

“Looks good on you, kiddo. Next time you come over, wear that and I’ll fuck you over my desk.”

Stiles looks over at Paul. He’s lying there on the bed, naked and half-hard, eyeing Stiles like a particularly moist slice of cake. Stiles smirks and licks his lips.

“How about I wear it and you shove me onto my knees and fuck my face?”

Paul smiles, scratching at his graying happy trail.

“Sounds like a deal.”

Stiles nods, turns away, and heads outside to wait for Mac.

“Come again soon!” Paul shouts after him. Stiles huffs, holding up his hand to flip Paul off before leaving his bedroom. Stiles pulls his shoes on at the front door, grabs his smokes, lighter, wallet, and keys, then heads outside, lighting up a cigarette. Then stills, staring straight ahead.

“Hey,” Stiles says, breathing out smoke. Chris’ lips purse.

“Good afternoon, Stiles.”

A breeze picks up, making Paul’s shirt flap open. Stiles knows his torso is marked up with stubble burn and bite marks. Chris’ eyes drift down briefly before moving back up to his face. He says nothing. Stiles’ cheeks heat up. He clenches the butt of his cigarette between his teeth and starts to button the shirt. Chris licks his lips.

“Have a good time?”

Stiles shrugs, puffing on his cigarette. Chris’ keys jingle in his hand.

“Need a ride?”

Stiles shakes his head.

“Already got one.”

Stiles watches in detached fascination as Chris’ cheeks pinken. A car honks from the parking lot.

“Come on, Stiles! I’m not gonna wait all day. Stop flirting and get in the Macmobile!”

Stiles waves at Mac to let her know he heard her even though he’s pretty sure people in Lambert did as well.

“I gotta go,” Stiles says needlessly. Chris nods, looking away from him. Mac honks again.

“Don’t make me come get your hot ass!”

Stiles sighs, unable to think of anything else to say to Chris.

“Your friend sounds mad. Better get going.”

Stiles nods and takes off at a jog for Mac’s car.

 

**Ten Things**

1\. Making the lacrosse team.

2\. Scott making the lacrosse team.

4\. Getting Aloysius. (Snake)

Stiles stares at the back of his receipt and taps his borrowed pen on the table. Mac lays her head on his shoulder.

“What’re you doing?”

“Therapy homework.”

“Yeah?”

Mac fiddles with Stiles’ cup. It’s plain coffee, no sugar, no cream.

“What is it? ‘Ten clues about my mysterious life before Saint Louis’?”

Stiles snorts, writing down Lydia’s name trying to ignore her dead lover and her dead best friend.

“Ten good things about where I used to live.”

Mac oohs in interest.

“And where was that? Jakarta? Thailand? Zimbabwe?”

Stiles shakes his head, crossing out Lydia from the list, unable to not see Aiden’s bloodied face as he lay in Ethan’s arms.

“California.”

Mac lifts her head, swiveling in her seat to press her knees against him.

“Like L.A.?”

Stiles swallows, wondering if he should tell her. She’ll have questions. Everyone does. Beacon Hills made national news that year several times.

“Beacon Hills.”

“Oh… _Oh my god._ ” She wraps her arms around Stiles and kisses his head. “I’m sorry, Stiles.”

Stiles says nothing, does nothing. He simply stares at Scott’s name as his vision becomes blurry. He won’t cry. Not here, not now. It would be an insult to every single person he hurt.

“I’m so sorry.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Both the summary and the thing quoted in the chapter are Henrik Ibsen's. One is from Ghosts and the other is from A Doll's House.


	8. 36 Degrees

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Waxing with a candlelight, and burning just for you. Allocate your sentiment, and stick it in a box... With hindsight, I was more than blind, lost without a clue. Thought I was getting carat gold, and what I got was you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, look! It's an update.

Stiles’ grip slips a little as he looks up for a good place to put his hand next. Topher hangs next to him, grip sure and feet firmly planted on the rock wall. Stiles tenses his feet and lurches up, barely managing to grab the handhold above his head.

“So, lemme get this straight,” Topher says as he effortlessly swings himself up another two feet. “You were dating barista boy, having lots of the gay, but then he found those letters you write but never send. You got pissed, stormed off, ended up getting drunk with some dude you used to know, Andrew accused you of cheating and you broke up with him.”

“Yeah,” Stiles pants out. “That’s about it.”

Topher climbs up another few feet as Stiles struggles to keep up.

“I thought dating dudes was supposed to be less drama, not more.”

Stiles huffs, sweating, but doesn’t reply, too busy trying not to fall.

“Honestly, I don’t know how you get these people to date you anyway. I didn’t even know you had a last name for like two years. Thought you just had the one. Like Cher or Prince.”

Stiles laughs so hard he loses his grip. He falls three feet then comes to a jerky stop. He leans back, looking at the fluorescents above him, still chuckling but not sure why he finds that so amusing. He spins slowly in place, not bothering to get himself back on the wall.

Topher rappels down to him, reaching out with one hand to stop Stiles’ spin.

“You alright, man?”

Stiles plants his feet on the wall and grabs the nearest handhold.

“Am I ever?”

Topher punches Stiles’ arm, shaking his head.

“Come on, let’s finish this.”

Stiles takes in a deep breath and nods. They climb together. It’s slow, difficult, but eventually Stiles makes it to the top.

 

Stiles plops down on the couch, legs sore, arms sore, and hair wet. He’s tired but it’s a good tired. The kind of tired that happens when the body is used well.

“We’re so watching Daria. No arguments, Stilinski!” Topher shouts from the shower. Stiles doesn’t bother responding, just adjusts his towel and turns on the T.V. It’s part of their ritual. Topher goes away for days, weeks, months, comes back, they play-fight, go rock climbing, and watch Daria while eating pizza.

Stiles cues up the episode while he waits to hear the shower turn off. It doesn’t take long, Topher is usually pretty quick. Stiles isn’t disappointed when a few minutes later, Topher falls onto the couch next to Stiles in his robe.

“Order the pizza?”

“Yep.”

“Cool.”

There’s a knock at the door. Stiles frowns.

“That was quick,” Topher says.

“Yeah. Too quick.”

Stiles stands and opens the door. Andrew smiles at Stiles from the other side of the glass outer door.

“Not pizza,” Stiles tells Topher.

“Who is it?”

Stiles opens the outer door and steps onto the porch.

“Andrew.”

He closes both doors and waits.

“I’m sorry to come over uninvited but you’re not answering your phone or texts or emails.”

Stiles crosses his arms, leans against the glass door, and says nothing.

“I’m sorry, Stiles. I didn’t know. Could you give me another shot?”

Stiles sighs.

“Please? I promise, I didn’t know. I just got so—so insecure. I know you usually go for older guys and I… it was petty of me. And stupid.”

Andrew takes a step forward and raises his hand to touch Stiles’ arm.

“Please take me back.”

Stiles shakes his head and breathes. Andrew droops, dropping his hand.

“Do you really wants that? You even know how many people I’ve slept with since then?”

Andrew shakes his head, hugging himself.

“I don’t know and I don’t care. I want you, Stiles, not your count of lovers.”

Stiles takes a deep breath.

“Thirteen.”

Andrew stills, eyes going wide.

“And that’s just my best guess. Some of them have been more than once.”

Andrew shakes his head, a look of determination on his face.

“I don’t care.”

“Four of them were people you know.”

“Don’t. Care,” Andrew says, jutting out his jaw.

“You know your creative writing teacher? The one you have a crush on?”

Andrew’s jaw drops.

“Mister Hamilton? _Him?_ ”

Stiles nods.

“Fucked him several times. Including the day we broke up.”

Andrew takes a step back, hands going to thread through his hair.

“Jesus, Stiles. Jesus. I didn’t even know he was gay. How did that—? Did you hunt him down? Go to my school?”

Stiles shakes his head.

“We’ve been fucking for a couple years.”

Andrew crouches down, letting out a quiet, “ _Shit._ ”

“Used to be my teacher. Fucked him then too. In his office, his car, his house, my house. Hell, we’ve fucked at your work.”

Andrew shakes his head continuously.

“Those oversized shirts in my closet? They’re his.”

“Jesus Christ, were you cheating on him with me?”

Stiles shakes his head.

“Never fuck him when I’m dating someone.”

Andrew looks up at Stiles, eyes narrowed.

“Yeah but you don’t waste much time getting back with him.”

Stiles shrugs.

“He likes to fuck me and I like how he does it.”

“Jesus.”

Stiles refrains from making a comment about Andrew needing to get a bigger vocabulary or how that’s what Paul says when he comes but it’s a close one.

“You still want me, Andrew? I’m well-used goods and I like being that way. I like fucking strangers and friends and anyone that happens to offer.”

Andrew covers his mouth with both hands.

“I—I want to be with you, not the people you’ve fucked.”

The wind blows, causing Stiles’ towel to graze his legs.

“Then get a new best friend cause he and I fucked a few days ago.”

“ _He doesn’t even like guys!”_

Stiles shrugs, knowing that this is best. That making Andrew understand just how awful a person Stiles is is a good thing.

“I fucked him behind the counter where I work. He seemed to like it just fine.”

Andrew glares at Stiles, standing. There are tears in his eyes.

“You’re a fucking piece of work, you know that?”

Stiles nods. He does. It’s the one constant in his life.

“Is there anyone I know that you haven’t spread your legs for?”

Stiles breathes for a few seconds to make it look like he’s thinking.

“Lara. Haven’t done her. Know she’d go for it, though.”

Andrew’s face turns red, hands fisting at his sides.

“Fuck you, you _asshole._ ”

“No thanks.”

Andrew turns and storms off towards his car. Stiles stands there and watches him go. His chest aches. It’s for the best, Stiles thinks as he opens his front door.

It’s for the best.

 

It’s twilight that Stiles loves most. When the sky swirls and turns, the sun sinking below the horizon as sherbet clouds march angrily into the night and Stiles crosses the lawn of Paul and Chris’ apartment complex. He’s still not sure which one he’s going to see. It’s been twenty minutes since he left Topher passed out on the couch and he can’t decide. He wants to be fucked into oblivion but he wants to see Chris as well. The two are mutually exclusive.

Stiles comes to a stop where the cement begins. If he goes left he’ll be at Paul’s, if he goes right, it’s Chris. Stiles looks both ways as if a cipher will appear to decide the correct decision for him.

One way is easy, familiar; it leads to feeling wanted and useful. The poor hand on that is it’s empty and the whole of the meaning is hedonistic. Stiles has lived the past five years by that way. He has done only what he wanted to and only because he could.

The other way is full of guilt and shame. It’s a way that will force him to own up to the actions he ran away from years ago. He will have to take responsibility for all the lives he’s ruined and acknowledge that not only what he’s done is wrong but accept punishment for it.

Or will it?

Is either way what he thinks it is? Is seeking carnal knowledge any different than conceding guilt and accepting his past-due comeuppance? No matter which way he chooses, Stiles is still punishing himself. He knows he is. It’s not fucking or not fucking. It’s not acknowledging his mistakes or not. It’s deciding whether or not he is able to face his actions head on or slink back into nihilism.

The sky cracks like an egg and pours its yolk on him. Stiles stands there, shivering. He can’t decide.

He hates his fucking therapist for putting these thoughts into Stiles’ head. Stiles is still a rancid piece of shit. Rainwater seeps through Stiles’ clothes and with every passing moment; his shoes sink a little farther into the now muddy lawn.

He is mired here, so close to solid ground but he doesn’t have the will to move. Lightning flickers like the world’s most horrible fluorescent lights. A figure moves through it towards Stiles like Claymation.

“Stiles?”

Stiles blinks, turning his head syrupy slow.

“What’re you doing out here? You’re soaked to the bone.”

Stiles doesn’t move, isn’t sure he’s breathing.

“Come inside before you catch a cold.”

Stiles nods, rainwater in his eyes, glad that someone took the decision away from him.

 

Stiles sits down, wiping rainwater from his face. He wonders how much longer this storm is going to last as he settles into his familiar seat. It’s always hard to tell in Saint Louis. One minute it’s overcast and windy, the next it’s raining and Stiles can see more patches of blue sky than clouds. The city is, if anything, ever unpredictable. Unlike his therapist.

“Since you had so much trouble with the list, I’ve got an exercise for you.”

“What is it?” Stiles asks, brushing rainwater from his arms.

“Tell me one thing about Beacon Hills. I don’t care what it is, just pick one thing and talk about it.”

Stiles nods, wishing that Donald would pick a different topic. Hell, he’d rather talk about pretty much anything else. Donald sits there, waiting expectantly.

“When I was young, I used to think I was waiting for something to happen. It was like this constant suspension. Like when you trip and you know you’re going to fall. You have this… moment of clarity; you’re still for this one exceptional instant before you truly start to crash.”

Donald frowns.

“What does this have to do with Beacon Hills?”

Stiles runs his right hand through his hair, flicking off excess water.

“I’m getting there.”

Donald leans back, folding his arms over his stomach, silent.

“When I walked into the woods it was like the trees bent down to whisper to me these secrets I couldn’t understand. The longer I spent there the more agitated they’d sound. Everything was like that.”

Stiles pauses to lick his lips, index finger scratching at the back of his hand.

“Sometimes I’d sit on my roof at dawn to watch the sun sneak its way back into the sky and I’d see cats; a procession of four-footed shadows that would file on silent paws back into the houses they belonged to. Outdoor cats, indoor cats, and cats I never saw at any other time would pass by my house as they headed to their designated locations. Every time I showed this to Scott he acted like it was the first time. A few days would pass and he’d forget it entirely.”

Stiles pauses, leans forward to rest his elbows on his knees. Donald still says nothing but Stiles expects his silence.

“I never understood this. At least until I figured it out. It wasn’t me that was waiting but the town. It was like the whole place was stuck on the inhale, just waiting to breath out. A whole town asleep like Snow White, waiting for that moment that would bring her back to life. It woke up with P-Peter. A catatonic man who decided to go for a jog one night and murder his niece while he was out.”

Stiles picks at dead skin around his thumbnail as he talks.

“Then Derek showed up, quickly followed by the Argents. There was Kate, Gerard, Victoria, A-Allison, and Chris Argent. Though there were only two of them I interacted with the most. Chris Argent was the one that was the most peculiar. I hated him at first. I hated him a lot. He was my enemy.”

Stiles stops, unsure how to go on.

“What happened to change that?”

Stiles scratches at a scab on his ring finger.

“His sister died, then his wife, his father, and finally, his daughter.”

Donald leans forward.

“Was this in the Massacres?”

Stiles shakes his head.

“Just—just Allison. The others died before it.”

“How did you know them?”

The scab doesn’t come off cleanly; it bleeds a little. Red against the white of his skin.

“Allison—his daughter—dated my best friend, his wife worked at my school, his dad was our principal, and his sister burned a family alive in their home a couple years before that.”

“So you knew his family.”

Stiles nods.

“Now he lives down the road from me in this one bedroom apartment. On his own.”

Donald’s eyebrows rise.

“Did he move with you here?”

Stiles shakes his head.

“He had no idea I was here. It was only chance that we ran into each other.”

“Do you talk to him?”

Stiles nods, chewing on his lip.

“At least once a week. We do laundry at the same time.”

“How did that happen?”

Stiles shrugs, shivering in his seat from the damp air.

“It just did.”

 

_The air is cool, still, as Stiles walks across the parking lot. There are arms around him, keeping him upright as the world lurches around him. His vision is steady but his head isn’t. He’s full of cheep beer, tequila, and nasty thoughts. Stiles is going to do it. He’s going to tear the person next to him to pieces. More so than he has before. Stiles is going to cut what remains of his heart out._

_“There’s a step. Careful.”_

_Stiles’ feet rise. One step, two, three, and he’s there on the landing._

_“Wait here,” Chris says, parking Stiles against the half wall that divides his tiny front porch from the lawn. Stiles sways in place as he watches Chris unlock his front door. He shouldn’t be here. He should be miles away from anyone he knows how to hurt. Stiles isn’t safe to be around._

_He turns away and starts going down the steps._

_“Woah, woah. Hold it. You can’t leave like this,” Chris says, lurching after Stiles and grabbing his arm. Stiles’ whole brain lights up in anger. Doesn’t he know? Doesn’t he understand that Stiles isn’t safe to be around?_

_Stiles whirls around and shoves. He shoves and shoves until Chris is against the wall. He’ll teach him. He’ll show Chris that Stiles is dangerous, unsafe. Chris stares at Stiles, a look of concern pinching his face. Stiles glares at him, tightening his grip on Chris’ shoulders. Chris licks his lips._

_“Stiles—”_

_Stiles crushes his lips against Chris’. Chris makes a small noise of surprise, hands coming up to lay flat on Stiles’ chest like he’s going to push Stiles away. Stiles sucks Chris’ lip into his mouth and grazes it with his teeth. Chris groans, hands sliding down Stiles’ chest. He kisses back and Stiles is lost in the taste, the texture, the smell, and sensation of Chris’ eager mouth._

_Chris’ hair is wiry in Stiles’ hands. He’s surprised because it looks deceptively soft. Chris’ tongue lightly touches Stiles’ lip as if knocking on the door to Stiles’ mouth for permission to enter. Stiles opens his mouth and licks Chris’ teeth, enjoying this more than he should. It’s wrong. So wrong._

_Stiles shouldn’t kiss Chris. Stiles shouldn’t fist his hair in his hands or curve his body to press his hips against him. Stiles shouldn’t slide his hand down Chris’ back and grab his ass. Stiles shouldn’t graze his teeth over Chris’ jugular or grind against him and he most definitely shouldn’t murmur thinks like, “I want you,” or, “Fuck, Chris. So hot.” Stiles shouldn’t groan when he cups Chris’ dick through his jeans. He shouldn’t love the way Chris’ fingers dig into his shoulders or how his open mouth breathes moist air against Stiles’ neck. He shouldn’t squeeze his hand and enjoy the small hurt noise that leaves Chris’ mouth._

_“Can I?” Stiles shouldn’t ask. “Can I put my mouth all over you?”_

_He shouldn’t revel in Chris’ groan or in the way his hips move when Stiles mouths along his jaw. He shouldn’t fumble with opening Chris’ pants and he shouldn’t pull at Chris’ boxers. He shouldn’t lick his lips and look down to catch his first glimpse of Chris’ cock._

_“Stiles—_ damn.”

_Chris takes a shaky breath, detaching his fingers from Stiles’ shoulders as Stiles moves his hand over the head of his cock._

_“I can’t—won’t do this, Stiles.”_

_Stiles stills his hand and looks up at Chris. He should’ve expected this._

_“You’re drunk and something bad obviously happened today. I won’t take advantage of you.”_

_Stiles should leave. He doesn’t. But he should. Instead Stiles shoves again, pushing Chris against the wall. He’s angry and he shouldn’t be._

_“What f I want you to take advantage of me?” Stiles hisses._

_Chris licks his lips and curls his fingers around Stiles’ hands._

_“Then I’d say you’re not in the right state of mind to make decisions like that. You’re drunk and upset, Stiles. I’m guessing you had an argument with your boyfriend. You don’t want_ me _, I’m just convenient.”_

_Stiles deflates, body drooping until his head rests on Chris’ shoulders. He shudders and wraps his arms around Chris. Stiles bites his lip and breathes. Chris is a good man. Much better than Stiles. He feels wonderful against Stiles; warm and solid and real. Stiles presses close._

_He can smell Chris and the beer on his breath, feel Chris’ cock, still hard, just a little to the right on Stiles’ hip. His eyes burn, his body aches, and something in his belly hurts with how much he wants. Stiles will ruin this. He will break him. He always does. It’s an inevitability that Stiles will fail and fuck everything up._

_“Come on, let’s get inside.”_

_Stiles presses closer._

_“Thought you said you wouldn’t fuck me,” Stiles mumbles with his mouth against Chris’ neck. Chris snorts but Stiles felt his cock move. He liked that._

_“You’re sleeping on the couch, young man, not with me.”_

_Stiles sighs as Chris pulls away and herds him inside, resigned._

_“We haven’t even fucked yet and I’m being relegated to the couch?”_

_Chris shuts the door behind him, pausing a moment to redo his jeans, then steers Stiles to the couch._

_“I hope you know I’m going to jerk off on your furniture.”_

_Stiles watches Chris pull a blanket out from under the coffee table._

_“Don’t stain anything.”_

_Stiles kicks at his shoes, trying to get them off and stares at Chris’ crotch._

_“No promises.”_

_Chris kneels at Stiles’ feet and busies himself untying Stiles’ converse. It’s silent. Something swells in Stiles’ stomach he doesn’t recognize._

_“I’m going to think about you while I do it,” Stile says in a quiet voice. Chris pauses for a moment, takes a big breath, and pulls off Stiles’ left shoe. Stiles leans back against the couch; purposely placing his hands low on his stomach._

_“You could help me with it, if you want. Put your hands on me.”_

_Chris sighs, setting Stiles’ shoe to the side and starting on the next one._

_“Please, Stiles. I’m not that strong. I said no and I mean it. Please don’t make it any harder than it has to be.”_

_Stiles unbuttons his jeans, momentarily overcome with the desire to say something about_ making it hard _._

_“I think you’re wrong. I think you’re strong. Much stronger than me…”_

_Chris looks up, cheeks pink, eyes a little glassy._

_“Is that why you’re doing it?”_

_Stiles frowns, wriggling his toes._

_“Doing what?”_

_“Looking so—“_

Stiles lurches upright in bed, panting. He’s covered in sweat and his heart is pounding so hard his head _aches._

Wyn squeaks from between his legs and Stiles returns to the now. He reaches under the covers and pulls Wyn out. Ed climbs up Stiles’ leg but Stiles shoos him off. No matter how fucked up Stiles might be, he doesn’t want any innocent animals crawling over his hard-on. Stiles pulls his knees to his chest and tucks his head into the space between.

He doesn’t know what that was all about but he wants to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not happy with that ending...


	9. This Picture

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I am scared of what will happen to me if I can’t start caring or doing something or feeling something. I am scared because maybe feeling like this is my safety and when I move on from here I won’t know what to feel. I’ll feel okay for once and that will feel so wrong, I will collapse."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took forever to post. I've been busy writing and not posting. Heh.
> 
>  
> 
> The summary quote is from Please Don't Kill the Freshman: a Memoir by Zoe Trope.

Through smoke that hangs lazily in the air, a robin stabs at the ground with its beak, hunting in moist soil for insects. Stiles is an impartial observer to its lot in life; he does not help or hinder, merely sits on an overturned bucket and watches, ashing onto the ground next to his shoes. It takes the bird nearly ten minutes to find a beetle nearly bigger than its beak. Once it has the bug secure, it hops, flits, and flies to the tangle of twigs and grass it made a nest with on the neighbor’s gutter.

Stiles has to admire its forward thinking. The building’s roof hangs over the nest, the gutter has little chance of rotting or falling off like a tree branch might, and there’s very little competition for residing on a gutter. The fatted robin sits on its perch and eats, eyeing the world around it. It’s funny how something that supposedly doesn’t have higher levels of thinking knows its world far better than Stiles ever could.

 

“There’s a question I used to ask myself all the time.”

“What is it?”

Stiles scratches at the cuticle of his right index finger.

“I used to ask myself, ‘how can you tell you’re dreaming?’ It didn’t matter if I was awake or not, I just kept asking myself that.”

Donald sits still, eyes fixed on Stiles.

“Why did you stop?”

Stiles sighs and hunches forward. He licks his lips as he thinks on how to answer that and not sound crazy.

“Because no matter what you answer it with you can’t trust your reply. You can be awake and completely sure you’re dreaming or asleep and totally positive you’re dreaming. But that begs the question: Do you ever really _know_ you’re dreaming or are you just dreaming that? Dream logic still applies; you still do strange things and motivation is a word only tangentially related to actions.”

It’s silent. Stiles tears off a chunk of cuticle.

“So you stopped asking yourself because the answer couldn’t be trusted?”

Stiles nods, writing up his own 51-50 in his head.

“Does this mean you go around thinking everything is a dream?”

Stiles sighs and shakes his head.

“No. That would be stupid. I assume I’m awake and that my actions have consequences.”

Donald shifts in his seat, uncrossing and recrossing his legs, this look of concentration on his face. Stiles knows what he's going to say next. He knows because it's exactly what every single therapist he's ever had has followed that by. He's going to suggest ways to tell a dream from reality, he's going to give Stiles tools to know fact from fiction. Stiles doesn't have the heart to tell him that stuff doesn't work in a world where werewolves, banshees, and druids rush around him like he's the coffee table on a Benny Hill set. It's a vicious cycle of half-naked people, claws, and bloody teeth.

 

There is no moon tonight, a new moon. Though Stiles has always wondered at that definition seeing as the moon is not at all present on nights like this.

The only thing that lights his way across streets and lawns is light pollution and fireflies. It’s a strange night. Ethereal, quiet. Even dogs and car horns are muted. It’s as if the city is holding its breath, waiting for thunder to crack it open and reveal the bustle underneath the eggshell of peace. Stiles hates it. He hates that the only noise that reaches him is the siren trundle of his cart as he makes his way.

Stiles stops across the street from the Laundromat. He looks both ways then stares at Chris’ SUV as he brings his cigarette to his lips. An owl or some other nocturnal flying thing lifts off from the tree next to Stiles, flapping easily into the blanket of darkness above Florissant. Chris is sitting on Stiles’ favored bench inside, one arm resting across its back, head bowed. He might be reading. Stiles doesn’t know.

He wants to find out, though. He wants answers that only Chris has as Stiles’ own mind cannot be trusted. Resolved, Stiles flicks the cherry off his cigarette onto the ground and smothers it under his boot.

Once more into the light, Stiles thinks as he crosses Graham/Hanley.

He manages to make it through putting his clothes in the wash and storing his trolley cart thing underneath one of the folding tables before looking Chris in the eye.

“Hey.”

“Evening.”

Stiles sits down slowly on the bench near Chris. He closes his book and sets it to the side.

“How are you?”

Stiles resists pulling out a cigarette and lighting up at that question. People need to stop asking that. The answer hasn’t changed in over five years.

“I’m here.”

Chris stares at Stiles for a good long moment.

“You’re good at non-answers, aren’t you?”

Stiles shrugs, picking at the fraying ends of the hole in his jeans.

“Lots of practice.”

Chris snorts. It’s silent. Stiles counts to fifty-three as Chris watches Stiles pull at the threads of his jeans.

“We kissed.”

Chris’ eyes are on Stiles in one sudden jerk.

“What? We didn’t…”

His hands stops halfway to his face. Stiles stares at it, going for an unimpressed expression. Chris sighs and nods.

“Yes. We… we kissed.”

Stiles needs a smoke. He needs one now or he might start freaking out a little bit. He pushes himself off the bench.

“Gonna go smoke.”

Chris leans towards Stiles, hand out.

“Stiles.”

Stiles shakes his head.

“Need to smoke.”

Stiles steps outside and fumbles a cigarette out of the pack. He crouches down with his back to the bricking and lights up. It takes a few puffs for Stiles to start to calm down but he does. Eventually. Chris lowers himself down next to Stiles. He sits on his ass, picking up Stiles’ pack of cigarettes as he does.

“I’m sorry,” Chris says, rotating the pack between his fingers. Stiles takes the last good puff off his cigarette then grinds the butt against the ground.

“You lied.”

Chris nods, eyes focused on the pack.

“I did.”

Sties takes the pack from Chris, pulls a cigarette out, and lights up.

“You made me a liar,” Stiles says on the exhale. Chris lowers his hands to rest against the ground, his chest left open to attack. “Why?”

Chris takes in a deep breath. Stiles purposely blows smoke in his face. He doesn’t cough. Stiles doesn’t know if he’s disappointed, impressed, or a mixture of the two.

“Because you were drunk, upset, and obviously didn’t want to with me. I thought you had suffered enough already and didn’t want to add the embarrassment of—of propositioning me to the top of the pile.”

Stiles stares at Chris, inhaling smoke while he tries to process this.

“Idiot,” Stiles says, smoking drifting out of his mouth to hover in the air. Chris stares at Stiles, eyebrows drawn together. “You don’t get to decide what I can handle or know. I’m not a child,” Stiles hisses, ashing onto the ground next to his feet.

“No,” Chris murmurs watching Stiles raise his cigarette to his mouth. “You’re not.”

Stiles diverts his eyes to the street and pretends to watch nonexistent traffic. It’s silent for long enough that Stiles nearly finishes his cigarette.

“I would always rather know,” Stiles says, turning his head to fix his eyes on Chris who is already looking his way. Stiles’ heart thuds in his chest once, hard. Chris nods, opening his mouth to speak. Stiles’ phone cuts him off. Stiles digs it out of his pocket. It’s Paul.

“Hold on,” Stiles says to Chris. “What?”

“Always so polite,” Paul greets Stiles with. Stiles says nothing and waits. “You should come over tonight.”

Stiles shakes his head.

“Busy.”

“You’re never too busy to fuck.”

Stiles shrugs, eyes still on Chris.

“Don’t want to.”

Paul sighs.

“Alright, kiddo. You change your mind you know where I sleep and I’ve always wanted to wake up with my dick in someone’s mouth.”

Stiles snorts, smiling as he picks at dirt on his shoes.

“Fuck you, Paul.”

“I’d rather fuck you.”

Stiles licks his lips and flicks a chunk of dirt into the parking lot.

“Not tonight.”

“Fine, fine. See you around, kiddo.”

Stiles hangs up without saying goodbye. He hates saying goodbye. He stuffs his phone into his pocket and looks over at Chris. He’s frowning at where Stiles’ phone is in his pocket.

“He calls you kiddo?”

Stiles shrugs, playing with the now burnt out cigarette butt in his hand.

“Seems a little bit… patronizing.”

Stiles flicks the butt into the parking lot.

“He’s got an age kink the size of New York.”

Chris is silent, shifting where he’s sitting like he’s uncomfortable.

“Doesn’t that… bother you?”

Stiles shrugs, standing. His laundry needs to be switched.

“Only when he asks me to call him daddy when we’re fucking.”

Chris’ face turns red so quick that Stiles feels dizzy just looking at it. He leaves Chris outside with the muggy air and retreats into the cool florescent of the Laundromat. Chris joins him on his bench once Stiles is done switching his laundry.

“Do you have to purposely say things to make me—uncomfortable?”

Stiles folds his legs onto the bench between him and Chris and shrugs.

“Would you prefer I said things that made you hard?”

Chris licks his lips and places his hands carefully on his knees. He shakes his head.

“No.”

Stiles stares at Chris’ hands. He’s never noticed before the little scars on Chris’ knuckles. Stiles shakes his head to clear it but it doesn’t work.

“I’m not beautiful,” Stiles says, picking at his frayed jeans again.

“I think you are,” Chris says in a quiet voice. Stiles doesn’t look at him, just pinches a string from his jeans and pulls.

“You’re beautiful and strong.”

Stiles huffs. Chris is stupid and blind. Stiles is a cowardly piece of shit.

“Then why’d you turn me down?”

Chris sighs.

“You were drunk and upset, hardly in a state to consent.” Stiles snorts. “Aside from that, you don’t want me. I don’t ever want to force you to do anything you don’t consent to.”

Stiles lets his eyes drift across the Laundromat. Sasha is in the back corner, talking rapidly to his friend on the phone as he folds his laundry.

“Chris?”

“What?”

Stiles doesn’t turn to see if Chris is looking at him, unsure if he could stay here and say this if he did.

“Don’t assume.”

Stiles can practically hear the confusion on his face when Chris next speaks.

“Assume what?”

“That I wouldn’t want you.”

Stiles stands, quickly walking over to check if his clothes are dry even though he knows they won’t be ready. He opens the dryer but a hand slaps it back shut. Stiles turns his head to glare at Chris. He doesn’t move his hand from off the door.

“Don’t say things like that,” Chris hisses, eyes hard, jaw tense.

“Like what?”

Chris’ hand starts to turn mottled white and pink where he presses it into the dryer door. Stiles is moderately concerned but mostly curious.

“Like you’d actually want—” Chris stops, looks down, taking a page from Stiles’ book, and breaths deep. Stiles moves his hand from the dryer handle, sliding it along until his fingers bump into Chris’ He watches Chris’ eyes shut with this pained expression and he gets it. Finally, he gets it.

 “ _You want me,_ ” Stiles breathes out, full of awe.

Chris shakes his head, pulling his hand back.

“Stiles, don’t—”

Stiles grabs Chris’ hand, pulling himself closer to Chris when he doesn’t move. Stiles leans in until he can say the words he should keep to himself right in Chris’ ear.

“I’ve thought about it for a long time; you, me… Kissing, touching, fucking.”

Chris’ eyes snap open as he takes a step back. There’s a tightness to the corners of his eyes and his jaw tenses.

“Stop screwing with me.”

Stiles licks his lips, pulling Chris’ hand against his chest while he purposely lowers his eyes to Chris’ mouth.

“I’m not but I could. I’d fuck you in a heart beat.”

Stiles knows he shouldn’t be doing this the moment Chris’ face becomes this hybrid between pissed and longing. It’s not Andrew’s desire for the unattainable or Paul’s lust for youth. It’s something else. Stiles stops breathing for a moment, this fluttering thing on the back of his tongue trying to escape.

“I want to put my mouth all over you. I want—” Stiles blurts out then bites his tongue hard to keep the rest to himself. He won’t ruin Chris; he won’t pull him down into the mud with Stiles. He lets go of Chris’ hand, pulls himself away, and turns back to the dryer. He won’t let himself do this. He will not ruin Chris.

“Stiles—”

Stiles breathes in deep through his nose then lets it out of his mouth.

“You’re right. I shouldn’t… I won’t,” Stiles says, opening the dryer door and sticking his hand inside. His clothes aren’t ready yet, still wet. Chris says nothing but Stiles hears Chris’ feet head away towards a section of dryers farther down the wall.

His throat hurts and his eyes burn but Stiles just breathes through it. He keeps breathing until he hears the Laundromat door open, until headlights pierce the windows then retreat.

Only then does Stiles lower himself onto the ground, folding himself up until he can tuck his head against his knees and not care if his breathing shudders or wheezes out of him. He bites his lip hard and imagines her waving as she bounces towards a red SUV, her hair twisting and swirling behind her as she hurries away from him. Stiles is a real piece of work.

The belt of the dryer behind him squeaks as it tosses his clothes round and round and round, the florescent lights are strong and steady, Sasha’s voice is quiet, quick, and curious as he talks into his phone. One, two, three, four, five.

One-two-three-four-five.

One-two-three-four-five.

One-two-three-four-five.

This is not a drill; it’s real life.

One…

One…

Stiles closes his eyes tight and hugs his knees.

One, two. One, two, three.

Onetwo, three, fourfive.

He misses Scott. He’s such a piece of shit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I have some bad news, peeps. Well, sort of. The news is that I've decided to concentrate on my actual real fucking original stories instead of writing fanfic endlessly. I'm also working on a collab piece with The Roommate and putting together a thing of poetry to hopefully get published before the year is out.   
> I'm not stopping and this isn't a hiatus but when my buffer runs out it might mean that chapters will get farther apart in posting. 
> 
>  
> 
> Side note: I really just want them to fuck already. Like holy shit these assholes need to put tab b into slot c already. I'm so impatient for it.   
> Also: Considering whether or not to add in other actual characters from the show. So far I'm thinking Derek (and or Peter), or Scott but they'd have to have a reason to be in the STL so I'd have to put in an actual fucking protagonist for that and that seems like a lot of extra fucking work...  
> I'm maybe too lazy for that bullshit. Maybe.


	10. Special Needs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You can’t stop smiling.  
> All at once, the consequences. All at once you are no longer free. It’s all coming back around.  
> All at once.  
> Life — bleary, washed-out — snaps back into focus. The red light on the tower still blinks in the distance and every message in this world has a meaning. It all makes sense and you are finally being punished.  
> You can’t think of a time you have ever been happier."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FUNNY STORY: I lost all of my notebooks for like a month there. Not even shitting you. I legitimately lost this and everything else I'm writing for like a whole month. It was actually kind of awful. Months and months and, in one case, years of work vanished. The one I've been working on for years is still MIA by the way. Which is really, really, depressing cause I've put a lot of irreplaceable work in there.

It’s hot muggy days like this that Stiles likes where the shiny blue sky and light breeze tempt people to flock to parks or walk the streets in tank tops and jeans. Every limb is sticky with sweat but it deters no one from the outside. Except Stiles who sits in his chair, chewing on his pendant to the rhythm of Donald’s slowly rotating ceiling fan.

“Do you believe in the supernatural?” Stiles asks around the metal in his mouth.

“Like ghosts and witches?”

Stiles nods but doesn’t look at Donald.

“I suppose I do. There have always been things which science cannot explain. Do you?”

Stiles shrugs, sliding the iron sword pendant that Neil made for him into the corner of his mouth.

“Can—can I show you something?” Stiles stutters out, pulling the pouch from his pocket, not waiting for Donald to respond. He opens it and pours about a tablespoon of ash out onto his palm. He holds out his hand for Donald to see.

“What is it?”

Stiles curls his fingers around the tiny amount in his palm.

“Mountain ash. It’s considered a sacred tree that protects against the unnatural.”

Donald raises his eyebrows, looking up at Stiles.

“Do you carry that everywhere?”

Stiles shakes his head then throws his hand up, feeding his will and belief from his heart, down his arm, and into the ash. The zing of it actually hurts a little at first, the things in Stiles that lets him do this tender from disuse. It creates a perfect dome around Stiles before falling onto the ground, making a heavy line around him.

“ _What the fuck was that?!”_

Stiles’ heart races, his body light. He can feel the power sparking inside him, excited and ready to be used again after spending so long dormant.

“Mountain ash.”

Donald stands up, takes a step towards Stiles, pauses, and looks up at Stiles, eyes wide.

“Is it a trick?”

Stiles shakes his head, spitting the pendant out of his mouth. For a moment he imagines that it burns his lips a little. Stiles clenches his hand, taking in a big breath, concentrating on the dust of mountain ash still on his hand. It sizzles, starts to smoke then—Stiles opens his hand. _Fwoom_. A pretty little green fire sits on the palm of his hand. He can feel the heat but it doesn’t burn him.

“Call it a trick if you want,” Stiles says, turning the fire very briefly into the shape of a bird. It flutters, flickers, then dies, turning into a lightly packed egg-shaped ball of ash.

“ _What are you?”_

Stiles holds out his hand and makes a swooping gesture, gathering the ash on the floor into a ball.

“Usually human.”

Stiles stoops and picks up the grape-sized ball of ash. He places it and the other ball back into the pouch and closes it.

“Usually?” Donald asks, edging closer to Stiles.

“During… during the massacres I wasn’t myself. I was—was something else. Here.” Stiles hands Donald the pouch. “You probably won’t need this but it’s good to have.”

Donald takes the pouch with a shaking hand and sets it on the table by his chair. Stiles sits back down, rubbing his arms. He feels cold now, warmer than the air around him. Donald follows suit. He sits there, elbows on his knees, and hands over his mouth.

“Mountain ash is powered by will; if you believe it will do something then it will… to an extent.”

Donald nods.

“Can—can anyone do it?”

Stiles shrugs.

“If your will is strong enough and your belief is pure.”

Donald lowers his hands slowly.

“How did you come across this?”

Stiles takes in a deep breath, fiddling with the cold iron of his necklace.

“It’s a long story.”

Donald licks his lips, eyes fixed on Stiles. It makes him feel uncomfortable. No one has looked at him like that in a very long time.

“I’m here to listen.”

Stiles looks out the window. Wind ruffles the leaves on the trees within his sight. Donald hasn’t called the police or signed Stiles up to the nearest sanitarium. That must be a good sign.

“You remember I told you how I used to listen in on my dad’s calls?”

Donald nods, steepling his fingers and leaning forward. Stiles licks his lips. They feel oddly chapped.

“Well, one night I hear this call. Half a girl was found in the woods and they’re looking for the other half. My bright idea is to get my best friend to see if we can find her first. P—Peter found us instead…”

 

_The night is still save for one light but persistent breeze that tugs Stiles’ hoodie, pulling him ever closer to the point on the horizon where the ink of night loses power to the encroaching light. Stiles stops, toes digging into the moist soil below the pitch. In front of him a solitary beetle walks backwards, rolling the entirety of its meaning across the vast pitch with its long hind legs. The wind doesn’t budge, grabbing with small child-hands at Stiles’ loose clothing eternally towards the less dark patches of the field. Stiles crouches down, nearly falling over, and moves a branch out of the beetle’s way._

_“You’ll make it,” Stiles whispers to the little thing. “You always find a way, brother.”_

_The beetle pauses to turn its eyes on Stiles._

_“And you?” it seems to ask. Stiles nods._

_“Might.” Stiles stands, stick in hand, looking to the horizon. “Persistence is your trick, brother. You are small, powerful. I am big. I have to take the long way.”_

_Birds begin to cry in the distance, tears for things yet to happen. Portent of a coming light. It’s a song of searching, a cipher of protection, a noisome mantle. The beetle starts, inches from Stiles but already miles ahead. Stiles stands, walks again. He’s barefoot and comforted by the rough press of earth below his feet, welcoming like a toxic womb of eternity._

_The birds scream, his beetle brother pushes his everything ‘round and ‘round again, and Stiles walks._

“Sir! Can you hear me? HEY KID!”

Stiles starts, the sweet taste of dew and the bitterness of regretful blood in his mouth. He stumbles, falling to his knees.

“Jesus, are you alright?”

Stiles nods, sliding sideways to sit on the ground. Red and blue lights flash across his vision, turning the world a natural hue of purple.

“Where am I?” Stiles slurs out, reaching up to wipe his mouth and poking himself in the cheek with a stick instead. A light swoops into Stiles’ vision. He squints, shying away from it. It’s too bright, everything is too bright.

“On the highway, kid. You alright?”

Stiles shakes his head, still clutching the stick.

“Are you on something?”

Stiles nods, dragging his feet across the ground and leaning forward.

“Can you call my dad?”

Forty-five minutes later, Stiles is sitting in the back of a cop car while Officer McFriendly talks to his dad, watching a lightning bug drift across the air, flashing chartreuse until an Impala drives across its path. Stiles smiles, imaging the bug splattered on the grill of the car, tightening his grip on the cop’s jacket where it’s draped over Stiles’ shoulders.

“Come on, Stiles. Let’s get you home before the nice officer changes his mind,” Dad says, beckoning to him. Stiles stands slowly and closes the cruiser door behind him. He walks carefully along the side of 270, feet still bare.

“Thanks,” Stiles says, handing the jacket back to the police officer.

“Just be careful, kid; that’ll be thanks enough.”

Stiles nods, sticking his hands into his pajama pants and fiddling with the card Officer McFriendly gave him. The guy eyes Stiles as Dad puts a hand between Stiles’ shoulders and steers him towards his car.

Dad waits until they’re both buckled in and merging into traffic to speak.

“How long have you been sleep walking again?” he asks quietly, voice worried in a way Stiles has wished never to hear again after the Massacres. Stiles shrugs.

“A couple hours.”

Dad’s hands tighten on the steering wheel. Stiles looks away, out the window.

“Have there—Are you—”

Stiles shakes his head, knowing what his dad fears: that he’s still a monster, that he’ll go on another rampage.

“Not that I can tell.”

Dad gets off at McDonnell to turn around. Stiles curls up in his seat, trying not to shiver in the warm night as he attempts to convince himself it’s not happening all over again.

 

Light filters through the trees, turns the world a soft gold and light green. Stiles lies on his back, head in Mac’s lap in his backyard. Mac has a book in one hand, other in Stiles’ hair. They don’t speak, just lay there- her reading and Stiles listening to his phone.

A robin perches on the tree near them. Stiles watches it flick its tail and hop about until another robin joins it. The two dance around the tree together, wings little fluttering things, beaks tweeting. It’s days like this that Stiles loves. It’s restful, peaceful, to lay in his backyard with Mac and not say a damn word. It’s why Mac is one of his closest friends; she accepts him as she knows him, enjoys his company, and doesn’t pressure Stiles to do anything he’s not comfortable with.

Mac shifts, lips parting as she mouths quietly along to what she’s reading. The Idiot is a heavy read but Stiles knows Mac can do it. He has a strange and solid belief in her abilities.

Everything is good like this. The sun is bright but Stiles is in the shade, he has a friend, he has something to listen to, and sun tea is brewing on the cement of his driveway. It’s simple, clean. There’s no Paul to tempt Stiles inside with promises of carnal oblivion, no dad to look on with worried eyes, and no Chris to confuse or guilt Stiles.

Everything in this moment is lovely and very little hurts.

“This is a story about you,” the podcast he’s listening to says. “Said the man on the radio. And you were pleased because you always wanted to hear about yourself on the radio.”

Stiles smiles, watching the robins play together on the tree. Grass tickles his feet and Mac’s nails scratch lightly at his scalp.

“You have been haunted ever since by how  _easy_  it was to walk away from your life, and how  _few_  the repercussions were.”

Everything is fine about this moment and very little hurts.

 

Stiles blinks as sweat falls into his eye. He adjusts his grip, looking up the rock wall to plan his path.

“So you’re sleepwalking again?” Topher asks, swinging with a grunt to another handhold.

“Yeah.”

Stiles lurched up, feet scrabbling, and grabs a higher handhold. Topher sighs.

“Does this mean I have to kiddie-lock the house again?”

Stiles would shrug but he’s a little busy keeping himself from falling.

“Probably.”

Topher kicks Stiles in the shoulder. One of the rocking climbing gym’s employees shouts at them. They both ignore him.

“So not cool, dude. I hate those things.”

Stiles looks down at his feet, looking for a place to steady himself.

“Not my fault you can’t figure them out.”

Topher huffs, dangling from one hand as he looks for his next step.

“It’s so your fault, Stilinski. For living with a man-child.”

Stiles snorts, shakes his head, and swings to a higher place. Topher whistles, still ahead of Stiles.

“Nice one, bro. You’re improving already.”

Stiles pants, arms sore, and glares at Topher.

“Don’t look at me in that tone of voice. I’m not responsible for your life choices.”

Topher grins cheekily and scales the wall straight to the top. Stiles sighs and plods slowly after him.

 

Stiles stares at the ceiling, hands flat under his pillow, breathing slowly as Paul works his fingers into Stiles, mouthing along his cock. It’s hot, bright, and dry outside. Stiles hates it and the way it lights up the room.

“You’re quiet today,” Paul says, mouth against Stiles’ balls. Stiles shrugs.

“I’m always quiet.”

Paul’s fingers continue to move in Stiles.

“Not this quiet or still.”

Stiles sighs.

“Am I boring you?” Paul asks, fingers sliding out. Stiles continues to stare at the ceiling.

“Maybe.”

Paul laughs, sitting up.

“You’re a bit of an asshole, you know that, kiddo?”

Stiles sits up as well, moving off the bed.

“Maybe.”

Stiles pulls on his jeans, intending to have a smoke on the porch.

“Hey, where you going?”

Stiles buttons his fly, already walking out of the room.

“Smoke.”

He hears Paul following him but he doesn’t do anything until Stiles has the door open an inch. Paul shoves the door shut, boxing Stiles in. He nips at Stiles’ shoulder, pressing Stiles into the door. Stiles shivers.

“Don’t give up yet. Let me try something else…”

Stiles turns in the space between Paul’s arms, not very interested at all.

“Like what?”

Paul rears back and slaps Stiles across the face.

“What the fuck?” Stiles hisses and shoves at Paul’s meaty chest. His face stings where Paul hit him. Paul grins, not letting Stiles move him.

“What. Is. Your. Deal?” Stiles grunts out, trying harder to move Paul. Stiles glares, putting his shoulder into it. Paul humors him for a few seconds then grabs a handful of Stiles’ hair, jerking his head to the side.

“I’m going to fuck you until you scream my name, boy,” Paul growls right into Stiles’ ear before biting down hard into Stiles’ neck. Stiles tenses then wilts like his strings were cut. Paul grabs Stiles’ arms hard enough to bruise and shoves him against the door.

“First I’m gonna fuck your mouth,” Paul says before yanking on Stiles. He steps back smoothly as Stiles falls hard to his knees. Pain shoots up from where he impacts the floor.

“Open wide.”

Fingers dig into Stiles’ hair, holding him still. Stiles does as ordered, cheek still smarting. He moans, cock newly hard enough to hurt in his jeans as Paul fucks his mouth without regard for Stiles’ comfort.

An hour later, Stiles is curled up against Paul’s side, head on his chest, body bruised, bitten, scratched, and used. He floats blissfully in a haze of post-sex endorphins and pain.

Paul runs his nails up and down Stiles’ spine, sending lethargic shivers all over.

“Now, wasn’t that better than giving up?”

Stiles nods, eyes barely open. Paul levies a heavy smack to Stiles’ already sore ass.

“What do you say, boy?”

Stiles teethes a kiss over Paul’s nipple, feeling benevolent enough to humor him.

“Thank you, daddy.”

Paul kisses the top of Stiles’ head, fingers slipping between Stiles’ crack to press against his throbbing hole.

“Good boy.”

Stiles wriggles, sliding his leg across Paul as he slowly fingers Stiles. He wonders if Paul is right about giving up as he presses his head against Paul’s neck and pants softly, groaning at the feel of those fingers inside of his already used body.

 

There’s a small sandcastle of ash in front of Stiles’ feet; little clumps of burnt out cherries and powdery wisps that pile up higher and higher. He’s been here for a few hours already but he’s not going to give up yet.

The sun is bright, sliding along Stiles’ spine, raising sweat that mattes his shirt to him in uncomfortable ways and it’s one of those unusual days in Saint Louis where there is no wind, no clouds, and no peace from an unnaturally dry heat.

Stiles drags his cigarette through the pile of ash at his feet until the cherry comes out. He sticks the now spent butt back into the pack and pulls out another. Stiles lights up and inhales. He’ll come, Stiles knows, eventually and Stiles can wait. He’s got a lot of practice. Stiles has spent the last five years doing nothing. It feels good to be doing something even if that something is waiting outside the apartment of one Chris Argent.

“Stiles?”

Stiles looks up, eyes lagging behind.

“What’re you doing here?” Chris asks, a paper bag held to his chest.

“There more of those?” Stiles responds, gesturing with his hand at the bag.

“Yeah…”

Stiles stands, joints stiff, and drops his cigarette on the ground. He walks towards where he sees Chris’ SUV in the fading light of day. There are three other bags and a jug of milk. Stiles takes the milk and one of the bags out and heads back.

Chris is still standing where Stiles left him. Stiles keeps going until he gets to Chris’ door then waits, eyes fixed on Chris. He counts. At twelve Chris gets the hint and takes the steps up to his door. Stiles follows him inside.

“You can put them down on the kitchen table.”

Stiles does as directed then turns around.

“I’ll get the rest.”

It doesn’t take long to grab the other two bags and lock up Chris’ vehicle. He’s back inside by the time Chris puts the milk away.

Ten minutes pass, the groceries are in their proper places and Stiles is standing in Chris’ kitchen, watching him uncap a bottle of water.

“Here,” Chris says, handing it to Stiles. Chris gets out another one for himself.

“Thanks.”

Chris shakes his head.

“No. Thank you. You didn’t have to help.”

Stiles shrugs, fiddling with the label on the bottle.

“‘S easier with another person.”

Stiles watches Chris drink, his hand wrapped around the bottle, throat working, the way his eyes fall half-shut.

“Hope you weren’t waiting out there for too long.”

Stiles shrugs. It was only a few hours. He takes a sip of his water to wet his dry mouth. It’s cool and calming on his throat.

Silence. Seventeen seconds.

“Why are you here, Stiles?”

Stiles takes the four steps to Chris fast so he doesn’t rethink it, stop himself.

He kisses Chris, hands still tight on his water bottle. Six seconds pass. Chris’ lips move against his. Seven seconds. Chris’ water bottle falls to the floor with a splash and clatter. Two seconds. Hands slide up Stiles’ arms. Nine seconds. Stiles’ water bottle joins Chris’ on the floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just for the long wait, I'll post another chapter either later today or some time this weekend.
> 
> The quotes this chapter came from "A Story About You" which is a Nightvale podcast.


	11. Protege Moi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Baby, what are you waiting for?  
> I see how you look at me, across rooms,  
> like I’m just the kind of firmament  
> you could really cast some light onto,  
> and with those knees, like two greased moons  
> in glass sacks, if you fell to them,  
> and asked, how could I say no?  
> The very rivers would double back  
> to their invisible mothers and the mountains  
> would cross their legs and squirm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Summary quote is from "Zombie Sunday (Had We But World Enough and Time)" by Josh Bell. Go read the whole thing. Just google the name, you'll find it. 
> 
> As promised, the next chapter:

“So all that stuff in the movies is real?”

Stiles jiggles his leg, picking at the seam of his shirt.

“Yes and no. They don’t get it all the way right.”

Donald leans forward, a serious look on his face—one that screams excitement. Stiles hates it. This shit isn’t exciting in the least.

“How about witches?”

Stiles shrugs.

“Nice for the most part. Don’t piss them off, though; no way to tell if they eat their enemies.”

“Vampires? Demons?”

Stiles shrugs. Donald leans back, hands sliding over his face.

“The worst part about knowing this is I can’t tell anyone. They’d think I’m nuts.”

Stiles smiles, scratching at a loose stitch.

“A psychiatrist for a psychiatrist.”

Donald laughs. Stiles would join him but he doesn’t see anything as all that funny right now.

“How about werewolves? They’re real. Do silver bullets really kill them?”

Stiles stills, licks his lips, and smoothes his hands over the wrinkles in his jeans. He will not think about Chris. He will not think about the taste of his lips or the brush of his beard against Stiles’ skin.

“Common mistranslation. Not the metal but the family, Argent.”

Donald’s eyebrows rise. Stiles knows where this is going.

“You mean like that friend of yours?”

Stiles takes in a deep breathe, eyes sliding away from Donald.

“Yeah, just like that.”

 

Stiles digs his fingers in, enjoying the way the material gives under his hands easily. The air around him is thick, particles of flour drifting in the harsh glare of synthetic light. He picks up the knife sitting nearby and halves the dough, setting part of it aside.

In the corner of the coffee shop, a couple sits passing a vaporizer back and forth as they chat idly over their coffees. Today is like so many other days in Stiles’ life that it seems timeless, eternal in its sameness. He rolls the dough between his hands and the cutting block, slowly and carefully stretching it so as not to tear the tender thing. His hands are white and dry, covered in flour.

The radio plays quietly over invisible speakers, softly crooning a song so like many others. Stiles flicks flour onto what will eventually become bread, flour and dough caught under his nails. The couple laughs, leaning into each other.

Stiles wishes they would take it outside and away from him.

He thirds the dough, lays each line next to each other neatly, then takes in a deep breath and begins to weave the pieces back together. Stiles is careful to braid them in such a way that once the bread has risen and baked it will tangle the individual strands together into one cohesive and perfect loaf. He almost envies the dough’s eventual fate except for the fact that once he’s done with it someone will come along and tear it to pieces, gnash at it with their teeth until it’s nothing but some unrecognizable mass in their stomach.

 

Stiles sits alone against the front of the Laundromat. The sky is clear, the air sticky with humidity, and every once in a while he can hear planes take off over his music.

His clothes are in the washer and he hasn’t said a word in over forty hours.

There are no cars in the parking lot.

There is no one inside.

Stiles takes a drag of his cigarette and watches tobacco and paper heat up and turn to ash below his nose. He’s gone through half a pack. A car drives past and Stiles tenses, watching it drive on without pausing. Stiles has washed the same load four times but every time he feeds the machine quarters it does not produce the desired result. He is still standing alone in an empty room with wet clothes.

Stiles flicks his cigarette into the parking lot and stands. He walks inside, pulls his clothes out of the dryer, piles them into his trolley, and walks home. Silent, angry, but mostly disappointed in himself.

 

It’s black and gray and white, the paint layered so thick it comes off the canvas an inch in places. Stiles stands in front of a wall and stares at the painting. His music plays quietly in his ears, not even remotely loud enough to drown out the life around him.

Fingers tap his hand then wrap around it. Stiles follows the tug, letting Mac guide him out of the art museum. They don’t stop pulling until he’s in the zoo and seated on a bench overlooking the lake full of birds. Once seated, Mac opens her arms and Stiles goes willingly, curling up to put as much of his lanky frame within the borders of her body.

“Oh, my poor heartbroken baby,” she sighs softly and pets his hair. Stiles wants to shrivel up into a tiny inconsequential thing and crawl into her pocket where it’s safe and warm and nothing but lint can reach him.

“My poor little fucked up gay boy.”

Stiles watches the birds squat by the side of the lake, heads bowed as they rest through the heat of the day.

 

It’s not a far walk from the coffee shop he works at to Attitudes so Stiles parks in the little lot next to it, waves at Dracho who works on the nights that Stiles doesn’t through the glass and walks the few blocks down to the bar.

There’s no cover on drag nights so Stiles buys himself a drink and squishes himself against the wall closest to the stage. People talk, dance, drink, and flirt with each other. The mic squeals then Ryder is talking.

“Good evening ladies, gentlemen, and everyone in between! I’m Ryder and I’d like to welcome you to LET’S DRAG THIS OUT!”

The crowd, mostly drunk, screams.

“As usual, we’re running a little behind. It takes a lot of time to make fabulous bitches like us…”

Between a table of boys covered in glitter and a table of women fidgeting and ready for the show to start, is a man in his late thirties. He’s wearing a plane black V-neck shirt and dark jeans. He stares at Stiles.

Stiles raises his glass in salute then takes a drink. The guy smiles, following suit, wrapping his lips around the mouth of his beer and taking a big gulp.

Two hours later, Stiles fucks him in the back of his Jeep. The guy moans prettily when Stiles sucks on his left hand ring finger as he fucks into him like Stiles has no where else to be. Stiles traces his tongue around the tan line on said finger, watching the man wrap his right hand around his own cock.

The guy hisses out cusses and compliments equally and Stiles closes his eyes, pretends that the man’s hair isn’t dark brown, that his eyes are a particular shade of blue, and that his voice isn’t quite so deep.

Stiles comes with a whimper, pressing his mouth onto a clean-shaven cheek, wishing for the scratch of stubble.

“Fuck, come on,” the guy says, wriggling his hips. Stiles obliges, covering his mouth with his own and wrapping his hand around his cock. The guy comes with a grunt, come pooling on his stomach. He’s too lean, Stiles decides as he cleans him off with a rag. There’s muscle to the guy, sure, but he’s just so much soft flesh stretched over bones that have never broken. The guy leaves and Stiles gets behind the wheel, intending to go home, shower, and cuddle his ratties.

 

He doesn’t.

When he gets to the Lindbergh exit off 270, he goes right instead of left. He parks next to a red SUV and gets out.

The walk is both too short and too long; it gives Stiles an abundance of time to think but not enough to decide. The lights are out which means he’s probably sleeping but Stiles already knows he’s a piece of shit so he knocks anyway.

A light turns on and Stiles fidgets, wondering if he smells like sex and booze briefly. When the door opens, Stiles looks up then away.

Chris stands there; frown on his face, no shirt covering his chest. It’s silent for precisely fifteen seconds.

“Are you not cleaning your clothes now?”

Chris sighs and opens the door wider. He steps outside and shits it behind him.

“It’s three in the morning, Stiles.”

Stiles nods and licks his lips. He does not tell Chris that he made an astute observation.

“Why don’t you go home and get some sleep. You look tired.”

Stiles laughs. He doesn’t know what exactly he finds funny but something is.

“What’s so funny?”

Stiles shakes his head, stuffing his hands into his pockets to keep them to himself. Chris has cute nipples and Stiles wants to nibble on them.

“I haven’t slept in two days. If I could, I would.”

Chris stares at Stiles with this look like he disappoints him. Stiles gets this look a lot. He’s very familiar with it.

“Wait here. I’ll be back.”

Chris goes back into his apartment and Stiles stands there, hands still in his pockets. A light breeze picks up, cooling down the humid air around him. The door opens up and Chris is there with shoes and a shirt and jeans.

“I’ll drive you home.”

Stiles nods, heart beating funny in his chest. He follows him silently into the parking lot. Chris stops ten feet from Stiles’ Jeep.

“You _drove_ here?”

Stiles shrugs, nodding. Chris purses his lips.

“Gimme your keys.”

“You know how to drive stick?”

Chris sighs, holding out his hand. Stiles gives him the keys. To his credit, he only drops the clutch the once before getting the Jeep to go. Stiles curls up in the passenger seat, trying not to think on what he was doing in the back seat not an hour and a half ago.

It’s not even a ten-minute drive but it feels longer than the trip from the Grove to Florissant. Chris pulls all the way through Stiles’ driveway and into the backyard. He parks the Jeep right in front of the garage.

“Here,” he says, handing Stiles his keys. “Go inside and get some rest.”

Stile shakes his head.

“Can’t. Have to take these pills to sleep. Make me all slow and weird.”

It’s silent for seventeen seconds.

“Are you on any other… medications?”

Stiles takes in a deep breath.

“A few.”

“What for?”

Stiles laughs, hisses, “What do you think?” He’s tired of this conversation. The Jeep door opens easily and Stiles all but falls out. He’s halfway to the backdoor before Chris grabs his arm. Stiles stills, closing his eyes.

“Stiles, what’s wrong? Why’re you on medications?”

Stiles shrugs out of his grip and walks to the door.

“You know the answer to that.”

He hears Chris sigh. Stiles opens the storm door, then the inner door and takes the stairs down into the basement. There are footsteps behind him.

“That’s not an answer, Stiles.”

Stiles turns, crossing his arms, irrationally angry. The coffee table stands between them now, a dark pock of old wood against the young planks of the basement floor.

“Fine. You want to know so badly, Chris? I’ll tell you. My therapist prescribes them. For anxiety, depression, night terrors, panic attacks, and insomnia. Congratulations: you now know I have PTSD. Do you feel better now?”

Chris’ face turns ashen. He sways in place and Stiles doesn’t care. Just does not; he’s too busy trying to hide the burning shame at not being able to cope behind anger. His eyes sting and he hates so much right now.

“No,” Chris says, taking a shaky seat on the couch.

“Good. Neither do I.”

Stiles opens his bedroom door and goes inside. He curls up on his bed with his hands in front of his face and counts, trying not to shake with something he doesn’t want to describe. He hates this. He hates this so much. He wishes he could just get over it and go back to being a person. He’s tired of being this other person, being this weak, frail thing. 

Hours or maybe minutes later, a weight pushes down one side of the bed. Stiles ignores it, counting his fingers. A body presses into Stiles’ back, arms wrap around him. They’re warm and strong and wonderful and Stiles doesn’t have it in him to respond.

“I’m sorry,” Chris whispers, mouth nearly, nearly, touching the back of Stiles’ neck.

Stiles squeezes his eyes shut tight. He refuses to cry, refuses to move, refuses to acknowledge what’s happening. Eventually, he calms. Eventually, he tires. Eventually, he sleeps. Eventually.

 

He wakes up alone.

Stiles lays there, wondering if it was all a dream from turning onto Lindbergh to falling asleep next to Chris, wrapped up in his arms and warmer than he’s felt in a while.

He scratches his stomach and sits up, world flopping with the movement, and looks for his rats. He always sleeps with them. They’re nowhere to be found. Maybe Ed staged a bed-jail break. He’s done it before. They’re not on the floor though or on any furniture. Stile stands wobbily. He’s still dressed but his shoes are gone. It takes him a try or two to open the door and step out into the living room, intending to check if the rats are in their cage, then stills.

Chris is sitting on Stiles’ couch. He closes the book he has open in his lap and sets it to the side. Stiles shuffles over, body achy from sleep, and collapses onto the couch.

“Sleep well?”

Stiles shrugs, pushing his face into the cushions on the back of the couch. Chris smiles.

“Not a morning person, I take it.”

Stiles grunts.

“Medsgetmeallfuckedup,” He slurs out. Chris frowns. The world is splotchy and Stiles feels light headed.

“You didn’t take any last night.”

“Doesn’t matter. Hate ‘v’rything.”

Chris grins, raising his hand to brush his index knuckle over his nose.

“Would coffee make it any better?”

Stiles nods.

“Upstairs. By fridge. Cupboard.”

Chris pats Stiles’ leg and levers himself up. Stiles closes his eyes and slides sideways until he’s face-planted into the couch. It’s silent and Stiles has almost drifted back to sleep before Chris returns.

“Come on,” he says, pulling Stiles upright when he doesn’t move. “Can’t drink coffee laying down.”

Stiles takes the mug when Chris holds it out. He feels shaky and weak so it’s necessary to task both hands with this. He takes a sip then moans. Coffee good. Stiles downs half of it, enjoying the taste and the scald. He finishes his coffee in silence, Chris taking the seat next to him. Stiles sets the empty mug on the table, already feeling a little better.

“Better?” Chris asks, humor in his voice. Stiles nods.

“Thanks.”

Chris looks down, threading his fingers together.

“Listen, Stiles. About the other day when I—when we…”

“Made out?” Stiles finishes for him. Chris clears his throat.

“Yes. That. I don’t think… it would be a good idea. For it to happen again.”

Stiles nods, closing his eyes. There’s some weird sensation he can’t describe in his gut like that time he accidentally drank rancid milk.

“OK.”

“It’s simply not a good—what?”

Stiles shrugs, standing. He needs a smoke. A smoke and a good fucking in that order.

“OK.”

Chris stares at Stiles, eyes squinting like he’s trying to find the hidden image in one of those Old-Woman-Young-Woman pictures. Stiles picks his smokes and lighter up off the coffee table (he doesn’t remember putting them there and probably wouldn’t if he had been the one to do so anyway) and heads for the stairs. Hand clamped on the rail, he gets four steps up before there’s movement behind him.

“That’s it? Just OK?”

Stiles nods. He’s been doing that a lot this morning.

“I want you. I made it clear. You’ve turned me down. Also pretty clear. So OK.”

Chris huffs, is silent. Stiles opens the back doors and steps outside. He takes a cigarette out of the pack and slumps against the pillar holding the overhang to the porch up and lights his cigarette.

“You know, I was kind of expecting more resistance.”

Stiles blows smoke out into the stuffy summer air.

“Why? No is no. There’s no reason to push the issue.”

Six seconds of silence.

“I guess not.”

Stiles counts the seconds until he can’t hear Chris’ footsteps as he walks away over Stiles’ driveway. Seventeen seconds. Eleven footsteps. Stiles takes in a deep breath and slides down the beam he’s leaning on until he’s sitting on the ground. His stomach churns. The sky is clear, blue, peaceful, and Stiles hates it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh and Attitudes is a gay bar in the Grove. Sorry I stole your person, Ryder, but you totally had it coming. You and your goddamn glorious chest binds. Maybe this wouldn't have happened if you ever started a show on time.
> 
>  
> 
> Bonus quote: "Every word is like an unnecessary stain on silence and nothingness." Samual Beckett. Gotta love an absurdist.


	12. Follow The Cops Back Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All I know is what the words know, and dead things, and that makes a handsome little sum, with a beginning and a middle and an end, as in the well-built phrase and the long sonata of the dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was going to post this yesterday but then my sister called me Friday evening. You know that mom of mine that's been missing and pressumed dead for about a decade now? Yeah, we found her. She's in Arkansas. Jar of ashes. So now I know. In 2005 she got married to some old guy. They were together for three years. She died in her sleep in June of 2008 from an asthma attack.   
> Knowing is kind of worse right now. It's like. There used to be this tiny little fragile piece of hope I carried around with me. I look for her everywhere. Now I know I'll never really find her again.   
> Feels weird to know the search is over.

_The air is hot, cloistered, like all the green things that clawed their way out of the earth to strain upwards have obtained lift off and are now flying like invisible robins through the air. The ground is sharp with the too heavy bones they shed in exchange for flight. Stiles walks across it unshod and shivering._

_His beetle brother is not here but a flying thing the color of ground, the color of his eyes, is perched on a signpost._

_“Anachronistic!” it cries, flicking its wings in agitation._

_“Shhh,” Stiles says, sitting down on a bench constructed like a monument to motivation._

_“It’s OK,” the bench says. “It’s good to stop here.”_

_The flying thing stills, turning eyes the color of pale flesh on him._

_“Wrong,” it hisses. “Untrue! Incorrect! Wrong, wrong, WRONG!”_

_“If it’s so wrong, what should I do?”_

_The flying thing hops across the sign, bowing then turning its beak to the sky._

_“Fly,” it whispers then spreads its wings and dives into the ground laughing._

Stiles stumbles into wakefulness over the bench of a bus stop.

He shivers, looking around. Stiles doesn’t know where he is. It’s the city proper, that much he knows, but aside from that? Nada.

Did he take the bus or? What? He’s wearing jeans so at least there’s that. No way he walked this far. Especially since he doesn’t have any shoes on.

A white impala roars by, doing fifty at least in what looks to be a thirty-five zone. Stiles sighs and sits down on the curb. He reaches into his pockets. Smokes, lighter, headphones, wallet, and cell. At least he’s better prepared than last time. Still no shirt or shoes though. He pulls out his phone and goes into the maps app, gets directions to home.

Holly shitting Christ, he’s twenty miles away. Cherokee and Iowa? He’s near Mac’s though. Was he there before he passed out? He can’t take the Metrolink—That’d take two hours, easy, if not longer. Plus it’s… fuck, four in the morning.

Stiles pulls up his contact list. Andrew is out of the question. Paul would have work in a couple of hours. He doesn’t want to worry his dad. Mac’s car needs a new transmission. Donald would ask too many questions. He doesn’t have Chris’ number plus… No. Not after his rebuff. Besides, Stiles doubts Chris wants to talk to him never mind driving half an hour at four in the morning to take Stiles home.

Stiles pauses his scrolling, Officer McFriendly’s name on display. That might work. The guy already knows Stiles is a mess, plus he did say to call if Stiles needed help. He probably meant mental help but still… he might pick Stiles up. He hits the call button.

“Hello?”

“Morning, officer. I hope I didn’t wake you.”

“… Who is this?”

Stiles digs his toes into the asphalt under them.

“Stiles. The crazy you found on the side of 270?”

“Oh! Oh, you alright?”

Stiles smiles to himself, looking down the empty road.

“Rarely but, uh, can I—called ‘cause…”

There’s a rustling then the sound of a lamp turning on.

“You sleepwalk again?”

Stiles sighs, relieved but embarrassed.

“Yeah.”

“I’ll come pick you up. Where are you?”

Stiles winces. This guy is too nice.

“Cherokee and Iowa?”

There’s a pause over the phone. Six seconds.

“ _How did you even get there?”_

Stiles laughs.

“No idea.”

“Alright. Alright. I’ll be there in… half an hour according to Google.”

Stiles nods.

“Thanks. I know this isn’t…”

“Hey, no. Part of the job, OK? I signed on to protect and serve.”

Stiles snorts.

“Do you want me to stay on the line with you?”

Stiles shakes his head.

“You coming is enough. Not exactly a great conversationalist anyway.”

Officer McFriendly laughs.

“OK. I’ll be there as soon as I can. Stay safe.”

Stiles hangs up and waits. The few people that pass by in the time it takes Officer McFriendly to get there give him looks but Stiles pays them no heed, just puts in his headphones and chain smokes. He’s used to people looking at him like he’s unbalanced. Mostly because he is.

Three cigarettes and the entire discography of Devo that Stiles possesses later, there’s a cobalt blue Ford F-150 pulling up in front of Stiles.

“Stan?” Officer McFriendly calls out his open window. Stiles stands, pulling his headphones out.

“Stiles. It’s Stiles, Officer McFriendly.”

He opens the passenger door and climbs in.

“Officer Saab,” he corrects. Stiles buckles himself in.

“Saab McFriendly? Terrible name.”

Officer McFriendly laughs, pulling out onto the road.

“Mandeep. And you’re one to talk. Stiles? What kind of a name is that?”

Stiles says his real name.

“Was that gibberish?”

Stiles snorts.

“No. My name.”

“Wow. I thought I had it bad.”

Stiles slides sideways until the door is at his back. At the stoplight, Officer Saab looks over at Stiles and clears his throat.

“Um. I brought a shirt and some flip-flops. They’re on the floor if you want to put them on.”

Stiles shrugs. He’s not ashamed of how he looks even with the bite marks, bruises, and scratches Paul has left all over him but he could see why the nice police officer might be. He doesn’t put the flip-flops on but he does the shirt. It’s dark blue with the Florissant Police logo on the chest. It’s a little tight but Stiles can deal.

“So,” Officer McFriendly says, shifting in his seat. “The sleepwalking wouldn’t have anything to do with the bruises, would it?”

Stiles stretches his legs out and sighs big and long.

“Only in that they’re both symptoms of my unbalanced state and poor life choices.”

His companion does not smile and, in fact, frowns heavily. He looks cute when he’s worried.

“What do you mean?”

Stiles looks out the windshield, watching the urban decay of Saint Louis pass by quietly.

“My therapist would say they’re both ways of running away from my guilt while still punishing myself.”

“Sounds like a smart guy.”

Stiles laughs.

“It’s possible he knows what he’s talking about.”

Mandeep—Officer McFriendly waits until he’s merged onto 55 North to respond.

“Maybe you shouldn’t see that girl anymore.”

Stiles raises both eyebrows and turns to stare at him.

“Late Night Relationship Advise From Officer McFriendly?”

He snorts, changing lanes to go around a particularly slow KIA.

“You’re not going to stop calling me that, are you?”

Stiles smiles.

“Nope.”

Ten seconds of silence.

“And it’s a guy.”

“Huh?”

Stiles takes a deep breath, scratching at his arm. It’s possible he has a mosquito bite.

“About six-four, two hundred something pounds, brown hair. Likes to make me call him daddy while we’re fucking.”

Officer McFriendly nearly runs into the meridian. He corrects the truck, his face darkening. Stiles smiles. He knew it. He has excellent people-reading skills.

“Still, um, the advice stands and if you, uh, if you need help, I’d be happy to…”

Stiles smirks and leans across the seat, stopping six inches away from Officer McFriendly’s ear.

“Kiss my bruises and tell me everything is all right?”

Officer McFriendly’s mouth hangs open for precisely eleven seconds. Then he clears his throat, grip tightening on the wheel.

“Not exactly what I was gonna offer.”

Stiles places his hand next to Mandeep’s thigh.

“Really? Cause I was pretty sure the reason you had me put on a shirt was because you couldn’t stop staring.”

Mandeep licks his lips in a gesture that clearly telegraphs that Stiles is right.

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

“No?” Stiles asks, brushing his fingers against the thigh in front of him. “No, you just want to kiss it better.”

Mandeep sighs, putting on his blinker though Stiles doesn’t know why; they’re the only ones on the highway. He puts the truck in park and then his hands on Stiles’ shoulders. He pushes until Stiles’ back is against the door.

“You don’t have to do this.”

Stiles frowns. Frowning comes easily to him.

“Do what?”

“Sleep with anyone who’s interested. Just because someone wants to doesn’t mean you have to.”

Stiles sighs, crossing his arms, and looks away.

“I know I don’t have to.”

Mandeep gives Stiles that look that all people do when they’re trying to communicate that they’re not going to swallow his bullshit.

“Can’t I just want you?”

He shrugs. Briefly, Stiles hates him.

“Maybe but that’s not what I think this is about, is it, Stiles?”

Stiles huffs. He might be right but Stiles is insulted anyway.

“So?”

Mandeep sighs like Stiles is dim. He gets that a lot too.

“So if I were to sleep with you I’d want you to do it because it’s me and not just because I was there.”

Stiles leans forward, stares at Mandeep’s thick lips.

“What if I actually do think you’re fuckable?”

Mandeep blushes again, looking to the side.

“You didn’t seem all that interested last time.”

Stiles shrugs. Mandeep shakes his head and reaches for the gearbox. Stiles grabs his hand, knowing that if he lets him put the truck in drive, they’ll leave this whole conversation on the side of the road.

“I just don’t find police uniforms sexy.”

Mandeep raises an eyebrow.

“Why?”

Stiles pulls Mandeep’s tense hand to his mouth.

“Dad was a sheriff. Just reminds me of getting into trouble.”

And bombing the station, killing half the force, and leaving his father to clean up after him, cover it all up.

Mandeep is silent. Stiles kisses his knuckles. Mandeep takes in a deep breath. Stiles uncurls his fingers and kisses his palm. Eight seconds later, Mandeep is kissing Stiles hot, hard, and slightly clumsily.

Stiles enjoys the little noises he makes when Stiles presses his palm against Mandeep’s dick. He’s enjoying the whole thing until Mandeep pulls away, taking the hand that Stiles was trying to worm inside his pants in his.

“No more.”

Stiles frowns, sucking on his tingling lip.

“Why?”

Mandeep sighs, fingers fidgeting over Stiles’. It feels nice.

“Because I’m not having sex in my truck on the side of the road.”

Stiles smiles, leaning in to rest his forehead against Mandeep’s.

“We could go to my place. Or yours. Either works so long as I get to put my hands in your pants.”

Mandeep smiles, kissing Stiles’ palm in a mirror of what Stiles did earlier. The sensation shoots down his arm and tugs at something low in Stiles’ belly.

“You work tomorrow?” he asks, mouthing at that sensitive stretch of skin.

“Yes,” Stiles says, eyes transfixed on Mandeep’s mouth. “But not until five.”

“Good. I’ll pick you up at eleven. We can have a late breakfast together.”

Stiles grins, raising his eyes to Mandeep’s.

“You asking me on a date, Officer McFriendly?”

Mandeep smiles, ducking his head.

“Maybe. Is that alright?”

Stiles lurches over the space between them and kisses him. Mandeep groans when Stiles’ free hand squeezes his cock through his jeans.

“Maybe.”

Mandeep laughs, cutting himself off to moan again when Stiles gets his fly open and his hand inside.

 

“Hey.”

Stiles pinches his cigarette between his teeth, yanks his headphones out of the jack on his phone, and nods. He balls up his headphones and stuffs them into his pocket before responding.

“Hi.”

Four seconds of silence.

“Do you—do you need a ride home?” Chris asks, eyes fixed on the pile of groceries at his feet. Stiles shakes his head. “Oh. OK.”

Chris sits down on the curb next to him. Stiles shivers. It’s unusually cold tonight for summer in Saint Louis. It might rain but Stiles can never tell.

Fourteen seconds of silence.

Stiles blows smoke rings above his head. Chris takes a big breath.

“When Al… When she—died, I took Isaac to France, set him up with some… family that had more open views than my father. We ended up spending a good amount of time together.” Chris pauses. Stiles watches him lick his lips and something burns in his throat. He says nothing.

“He, ah. By the end of the summer, he… propositioned me. Said he wanted me, was in love with me.”

Stiles breathes in deep, flicking ash onto the ground.

“I turned him down. I knew it was just the grief talking; he wanted— _her_ and I was just a close enough facsimile. He persisted for a little while but eventually he met a girl at his school, started making friends. He stopped pursuing me and we got back to being friends. Isaac’s like a son to me now.”

A police cruiser pulls into the empty parking space next to the cart return. Stiles tosses his cigarette onto the ground.

“That’s a real nice story, Chris.” Stiles says, standing to gather his grocery bags. “But I’m not Isaac. I don’t want you because of her. If you don’t want me, that’s fine. Just don’t try so hard to convince yourself that what I feel isn’t real.”

Stiles walks away, into the parking lot.

Mandeep steps out of his cruiser, uniform rumpled from a night of work. He opens the backdoor and Stiles piles the groceries into the back.

“Hey,” Mandeep says with a smile, closing the cruiser door. Stiles flashes him a quick smile. Mandeep steps close, a frown replacing his smile. “Something wrong? Was that guy bothering you?”

Stiles shakes his head, stepping in close to hug him. He likes the way Mandeep smells constantly like police car and a little like wet dog. It’s nice.

“No. He’s… a friend.”

Mandeep rubs Stiles’ back then steps away, holding Stiles at arms reach. He doesn’t quite look like he believes Stiles.

“OK.”

Stiles counts to four, looks over. Chris is standing at the curb, shifting on his feet like he can’t decide which way to go.

“Come on, then. This lasagna isn’t going to make itself!”

Stiles nods and walks around to the other side of the cruiser. He gets in slowly, shoulders tense like he expects something to happen.

Absolutely nothing does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mehhhhhhhhh.
> 
> Summary is Samuel Beckett.


	13. Sleeping With Ghosts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> But now the poor child was all alone in the great forest, and so terrified that she looked at every leaf of every tree, and did not know what to do. Then she began to run, and ran over sharp stones and through thorns, and the wild beasts ran past her, but did her no harm.  
> She ran as long as her feet would go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quote is from Snow White.  
> Y'all should be so fucking grateful right now. I typed this shit up on my lunch break. I could have been napping or harassing people. 
> 
> On an unrelated note: my hair is now officially long enough I no longer look like a train creeper! It'll only take me another three to five fucking years to grow it back out to its previous glory.  
> The lesson behind this is don't experience a sudden onset rash of self hatred and be bored at the same time, kids.

Disambiguated voices float down to Stiles in his dark room like phantoms with more vitality than Stiles ever remembers possessing and Wyn is sitting on his shoulder, grooming the three-day growth on his face. Ed has claimed Stiles hand for his own, nibbling at the dead skin around his nails. Stiles shifts his legs, bending them up. Al squeaks, sliding down into Stiles’ lap. He squirms then settles, curling up. He’s been sleeping a lot lately.

The voices get louder, more energetic. They moan and laugh, furniture grunting with their movement.

“Oh! Terry!” one of them shouts then screams. Stiles’ stomach turns and he breathes in a nauseated feeling.

“Renee… so good,” The other one groans out. It’s quiet after that. Stillness settles over the house. Ed and Wyn get into a wrestle, rolling and squeaking on Stiles’ chest. Stiles watches Wyn pin Ed then begin to groom him. They curl up together after that, apparently tuckered out. Stiles wonders at their ability to love and fight in the same breath.

They make it look so easy.

 

The sun is setting syrupy-slow over the trees and hills. Stiles has a cup of coffee and he’s sitting on his dad’s porch, smoking. Ceana barks, taking off from her spot under the pear tree to chase a squirrel that got too close to her dog run. The sliding glass door opens, closes. Dad sighs, taking the seat next to Stiles. He sets down his own coffee mug and a bowl of balled melon.

“I wish you wouldn’t smoke, Stiles.”

Stiles ashes onto the bricks under his feet, eyes fixed on Ceana’s wagging tail as she trots back over, pride suffusing her graying face at having chased the intruder away. She used to be a show dog once upon a time, best in breed, a perfect example. Now she’s graying, mildly arthritic, with a hot spot on her front leg, and missing her uterus.

“I know,” Stiles says, reaching out with his free hand to bury in the thick fur over Ceana’s shoulder. She pants happily, licking her chops.

“Not that I’m not glad to spend time with you, son, but what prompted the visit?”

Stiles shrugs, lifting his cigarette to his lips. He inhales, holds, then lets out the smoke, tilting his head back to keep it high above the collie now resting her head in his lap.

“Maybe I missed you.”

Dad huffs, picking a piece of melon out of the bowl.

“Yeah, that could be it. Just don’t let me catch you with Mrs. Clawson’s husband again.”

Stiles smiles, pinching the cigarette between his teeth, flattening the butt into an oblong shape.

“Henry came on to _me._ ”

“And it was the subdivision’s pool. I still can’t swim in it.”

Stiles decides to laugh because it’s easier than trying to express how sorry he is for being such a terrible human and a worse son.

“Well, I gotta head into work,” Dad says, standing. He leans over, kisses the top of Stiles’ head. Stiles closes his eyes, everything painful from that one kind gesture. “Stay as long as you want.”

Stiles nods, slumping in his chair, sliding his hand up to scratch at Ceana’s ears.

“Love you, son.”

Stiles smiles up at his dad, wanting badly to return the sentiment. Dad rubs Stiles’ head then takes off across the porch to the gate. The sun is completely lost form sight now and Stiles is alone.

Ceana lifts her head, ears pricking up. She lurches away from Stiles, barking at the trees on the other side of the fence. There’s a crash followed by a deer running across the hill, booking it for safety. Ceana barks a few more times at it then returns to Stiles, triumphant. Stiles grabs her head and smiles at her.

“You’re such a good guard dog,” he tells her, sliding out of the chair. He hugs her to him, burying his face in her neck. Her tail wags happily behind her. “You’re a better child to him than I could ever be.”

Ceana paws at his leg, wriggling. Stiles hugs her tighter, digging his fingers into that warm fur. He breaks.

He cries hard into that soft fur. She whines, going still. Stiles is such a horrific piece of shit. He doesn’t know why he cries or, at least, it’s a vague reason with too many sharp points to communicate. The best he can do is sob, open mouthed, into Ceana’s thick fur like a child, afraid and lost, until he’s too numb to continue.

His cigarette, forgotten on the bricks, slowly burns itself out.

 

 

 

It’s strange to think on who I used to be, what I used to believe, and how much that’s changed. When I was younger, before anything had happened, I thought that the things I do now, the person I am now, would never be me. I used to be so naïve and hopeful, so in-love with the world and its possibilities. Maybe I was still more cynical than you, less sure about the good in people and the world but I was a better person than I am now.

I’ve done things you’re probably still incapable of. I’ve been pragmatic to the point of immorality and back. I thought: this is the most practical way to handle the situation and voiced solutions I knew you’d disapprove of. But I figured, you know, that you were still my friend so I must not be THAT bad. It took me a long time to realize that your stupid belief that even bad people can be good extended to me. I let you down. Your belief was wasted on me.

I’m sorry, Scott. So very sorry every day. I don’t think I could ever be the person you believed in.

I hope you’re doing well. I hope you’re happy. I hope no one lets you down the way I did.

 

I’m so so sorry,

Stiles

Stiles rummages through his pockets for his lighter, cigarette dangling from his lips.

“I freaking love these pancakes,” Mandeep says, stabbing his fork into them.

Stiles grunts, pulling his lighter out. They’re in one of the few remaining Denny’s with a smoking section and Stiles plans to take advantage of that.

“Wanna try some?”

Stiles lights his cigarette, setting his lighter down on the table after and pulling over a saucer to ash in. Mandeep holds up his fork, pancake dripping syrup back onto his plate. Stiles pulls his cigarette out of his mouth, blowing smoke up above their heads.

“Kay.”

Mandeep reaches over the table, fork still in hand. Stiles eyes it and him, hesitant. He kind of thinks getting fed by his lover is a little juvenile but the fork is there in front of his face. He takes the pancake off with his teeth and chews slowly. It tastes like pancakes. Mandeep ducks his head, smiling. Stiles swallows.

“So, um, Stiles. Are we… dating?”

Stiles raises his cigarette to his mouth, inhales, and lets it out. Their waitress drops an ashtray in front of him without pausing. Sometimes Mandeep reminds Stiles of Scott.

“Do you want to date me?”

Mandeep licks his lips, nudging his stack of pancakes with that syrupy fork.

“Ye-yeah. Yes. I do.”

“OK.”

Mandeep smiles brilliantly, taking that as a yes. Stiles ashes into the tray and watches their waitress pour coffee into an elderly man’s cup. He smiles at her, says, “Thanks, Tamyra.”

She pats his wrinkled hand gently.

“Anytime, Tom.”

 

Stiles is Nicole Kidman. Stiles is Satine. Stiles is the scarlet whore of the Red Mill. He’s got his slinky red dress, his ruby lips, and fading ginger haired wig. Everything else is masked in powder, pale cover-up, and a grey dust of glitter. Across his neck, a collar of imitation diamonds glitter. Costume jewelry.

They refract rainbows across Mac, over Christian’s face, turning his gray countenance into rainbow polka dots. She bends low over him, eyebrows drawn up and together, mouth puckered, halted from silently crooning, “Come what may.”

Change rattles like an offbeat maraca to their muted ballad into their tips elephant.

“I will love you,” Mac mouths, leaning close.

“I will love you,” Stiles parrots, turning his head away, red hair drifting out and away from him.

They freeze together, neither getting far enough to promise forever, letting it lie like what’s choking him; a promise as real as the diamonds around his neck.

 

Stiles has the rough wood of the support beam for his porch digging in snuggly between his shoulder blades, Mandeep’s curly hair tangled around his fingers and his big tongue halfway down Stiles’ throat.

It’s unnecessarily humid outside, the slight breeze doing nothing to alleviate this. Mandeep groans, hands groping at Stiles’ ass like it’s the only thing tethering him there. He pulls away and Stiles follows, leaving open-mouthed kisses across his jaw.

“I really have to go,” Mandeep says, rubbing against Stiles. “I’ve got to—Oh, oh my god.”

Stiles licks the edge of his ear, hand shoving its way into Mandeep’s tight uniform pants to rub against his ass.

“Stiles,” he breathes out, ducking his head, pushing back and forth with his hips. “I’m going to be late.”

Stiles nibbles on his earlobe, ignoring him, fingers teasing at his ass crack. Someone clears their throat behind Mandeep, low-pitched and obviously unamused. Mandeep stiffens and not in the fun way.

“Morning, son. Nice day, isn’t it?”

Stiles doesn’t have to look to know Mandeep is blushing hard enough for his cheeks to be near radioactive.

“Hi, Dad,” Stiles replies, slowly removing his hand from Mandeep’s pants.

“Stiles. Man molesting my son on his porch.”

Mandeep literally whimpers, shoving his face hard into Stiles’ neck like Stiles’ dad can’t see him if he doesn’t make eye contact. Stiles puts his hands on Mandeep’s chest, idly considering pushing him away and turning him around to face his dad. Just because.

“I can assume that you forgot we had plans.”

“Might have.”

Stiles rubs his thumb over Mandeep’s nipple out of curiosity. He _squeaks_ and jumps away. Stiles snorts, bringing his hand up to cover his mouth. He looks over to his dad, a small smile on his face. Dad is frowning, eyes fixed on Stiles but there’s something light about his eyes like maybe this doesn’t actually bother him too much.

“Are you going to introduce me to the man who’s been violating you?”

Stiles shrugs.

“No need. You’ve met.”

Dad’s eyebrows raise, an almost-sparkle in his eyes.

“We have?” he responds, sounding surprised.

Mandeep shuffles, tugging his clothes back into place. He clears his throat.

“Dad, Mandeep, the friendly officer who found me on the side of the road.”

“Really now?”

Dad turns his head to inspect the officer in question. Stiles digs through his pockets for his cigarettes.

“Nice to see you again, sir,” Mandeep mumbles, flushing an interesting shade of red.

“It might’ve been,” Dad replies, taking Mandeep’s outstretched hand. “If you hadn’t been humping my son. Outside. In public. Where children could see.”

“I’m, um, sorry… about—that.”

Dad smirks, opening his mouth.

“You’re also late for work,” Stiles cuts in before his dad can torture Mandeep any more.

“ _Shit_! Yeah. Sorry. I—I gotta go.”

Like many brave men before him, Mandeep flees.

Stiles pulls a cigarette out of the pack, lights it, and inhales, staring at his dad.

“Seriously?”

Stiles shrugs, exhaling smoke. Dad shakes his head, somehow smiling and frowning at the same time.

 

He’s drifting in the doorway to sleep, body warm, stomach full, and eyes closed. He can hear from here the quiet clatter and sluice of dirty dishes becoming clean. Humming.

“Somewhere, far away from here,” a voice as lovely as golden sunlight, as soft and content as handmade blankets croons. “I saw stars, stars that I could reach, yeah.”

The voice continues, gentle, somehow happily sad. Stiles drifts in and out of it, lulled by her voice.

“I assemble all the sand that cover wedding beaches to build a castle so your mom would have a place to stay.”

His mom would have loved this song. She used to sing when she did the dishes, too. Hips sideways, one foot tucked up against the opposite knee like the most beautiful human flamingo ever.

“I’m reaching farther than I ever have before, leaving all who broke your heart upon the shore.”

Maybe that’s why he loves Mac so very much; she’s a lot like Stiles’ mom was before—Before.

“So never look behind you, spooky people bring you down,” She continues to sing to herself. Stiles rolls over on her couch, shoving his face into the crook between cushion and back, breathing deep. He closes his eyes tight, letting Mac’s voice fill him up and up, still drifting at the threshold of sleep. He sees his mom, briefly, smiling at him, reaching for him. He can almost, almost smell her perfume, almost hear her say,” My sweet baby boy.”

“But I swear on everything I have and more, you make the sound of pulling heaven down.”

_She’s in the backyard, singing to herself and he’s a child’s consciousness wrapped in false hope, watching her with tiny, sticky hands and over-large eyes. Everything is sharp, detailed, but her._

_She’s soft focus, brightly dimmed colors and quiet longings._

_“Well met, well met, my own true love,” she sings to a grub she’s plucked off of a wolf apple, a tomato. “I am lately come form the salt sea and it’s all for the sake, my love, of thee.”_

_His throat hurts, coated with bee honey, and he croaks like frogs, reaching hands through the tall grass for her. There’s dirt under his nails, a black line of corruption next to the pink of his skin._

_“Mom,” he tries to call out. “Momma,” but the words get stuck in the honey of his throat, covered like a mosquito in sap. She turns to him, sharp, gaunt eyes, vacant and angry._

_He wails like the time he was eight and got lost in the Alberton’s and thought he’d never find her again, the cashier cooing at him, telling him they’d find her and, later, telling his mom with a soft smile how he must love her a lot._

_“Oh hold your tongue, my dearest dear, let all your sorrows be. I’ll take you where the white lilies grow. All on the bottom of the sea,” she screams, she sings. He sinks like a ship, like a log, like rocks, down and down and down under the grass and dirt to where the tree roots stretch and stretch and stretch, reaching for him._

_A white birch. A florescent tree, growing forever downwards, truncated and unable to strain to the heavens. A white room with no windows, doors, or discernable light source. At its center, a black coffin made of rotted wood, on top of it, a jar of flies. He’s curled up in the corner, salt on his face, a brine of grief he will never lose, a crown of rotted flowers—her favorites now dead and little more than mulch—and oak around his head._

_The jar shatters._

_Dead birds rain from the ceiling, squelching at high velocity onto the ground. They are cardinal red, robin shaped, and bleed the color of mercury, of new silver. He weeps, sobbing copper from his eyes._

_“No, no, no,” he tries to say. “Oh, no. Oh. No. Ohno.”_

_“I raised you for more than this,” the coffin tells him. “I raised you better. Sulfetel. Do better. Dragul meu. Dat foc la tine.”_

_“_ I’LL BURN IN HELL!” he screams, _nails digging into the floor. They break, bleed sulphur. “I can’t burn anymore. I forgot how. I forgot. I forgot how to light fires.”_

_He pushes his head into the floor but he can still see it, still see her, still see the rotting wood of the coffin._

_“Reche mare. Puteti.”_

_“No. No. No.”_

_“Yes. It’s alright, my chickpea, my sweet boy, my little ember. It’s who we are. Say it. What do we do, baby?”_

_Hands touch him, cover him three thousand times over, so hot they burn like ice, like iron, like forgiveness._

_“Say it!”_

_“Vom arde.”_

_“Yes,” she croons like it’s a lullaby._

_“Yes,” like it’s something soft._

_“Yes,” like it’s something sweet._

_“As the stars. As the first fires of man. As below the crust of earth.”_

_Ignis aeternus._

_They’re coming for you. The wolves are coming for you. The Wild Hunt is coming for you._

_Burn. Burn bright. Burn them down to the pads of their paws._

_Show, show, show, them, them, them, who, who, who, we, we, we, are, are, are._

_We are not to be trifled with._

_They think you’re weak. They think you can be tamed. They think they can own you._

_For that, they will burn._

_No power can tame us. No thing can own us. No man can claim us._

_We are not weak. We are eternal. We are the Wilds they try to imitate._

_Come back to me. Come back to where you’re from. Come back to who you are._

 

Stiles wakes up screaming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I might, MIGHT post another one on Thanksgiving. Or I might just post a bonus chapter on that day. Something schmoopy or whatever. I don't know. 
> 
> Also really fucking unhappy with this one right now and I don't know why. I may just be unhappy in general. Who knows? Not me!  
> But it doesn't matter because I fucking hate this chapter with a passion.  
> Like passion fruit flavored drinks level of hatred.  
> ********  
> I've edited this to add a note that I might not be able to post on thanksgiving like I planned. I'm not sure yet but with the riots in my neighborhood and all I might not be able to.   
> I'll see you all when I see you all.   
> Stay safe, stay informed, and stay away from my town.


	14. Pierrot The Clown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One time, when I was very little, I climbed a tree and ate these green, sour apples. My stomach swelled and became hard like a drum, it hurt a lot. Mother said that if I’d just waited for the apples to ripen, I wouldn’t have become sick. So now, whenever I really want something, I try to remember what she said about the apples.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look at this. Another chapter so soon. Oh, what a great time to not be following my story.
> 
>  
> 
> End notes have a very important message you might want to read.

“Knowing the whole story now, I can better see why you have such a severe case.”

Stiles smiles but he doubts it’s happy, relieved. It only makes him wonder why Donald isn’t referring him to another psychiatrist, why he isn’t telling Stiles that he can’t see him as a patient anymore. Stiles would. Stiles would in a heartbeat.

“Have you told anyone else?”

Stiles shakes his head, picking at the loose threads around a hole in his jeans.

“No one that wasn’t there.”

Donald leans forward, threading his fingers together. Behind him is the window, a picture frame to outside. Stiles can see the leaves shifting in the breeze, a finch on a branch sitting strangely still.

“But that’s not really telling, is it, Stiles?”

Stiles breathes in deep, pulling steady at a thread. A good five inches comes out. He begins to roll it between his fingers.

“I guess.”

“I know you don’t talk about what happened with your friends and that you don’t talk to the people you knew then.”

Stiles shrugs, watching the thread disappear between his fingers.

“It would help. You know it would.”

Stiles snorts, dropping his string onto the carpet.

“Cause they’d believe me. ‘Hey, pal, I was possessed by an evil spirit and killed a bunch of people. Want to go for a coffee and talk about my feelings on this?’”

Donald huffs quietly and shakes his head.

“It’s not as impossible as you make it sound. You told me after all and I believe you.” Donald pauses. Stiles scratches at the tattoo behind his ear, staring at Donald. “They won’t hate you for something you couldn’t control; it wasn’t your fault.”

Stiles refrains from telling him he’s wrong about them not hating Stiles, about it not being his fault. He did it, plain as day, and anyone would have to be as crazy as Stiles not to hate him for what he’s done.

He knows he does.

 

It’s comparatively cool in the basement, a dim haven from the heat upstairs and outside. Stiles is sitting in the dark, only the light of the TV screen glowing just bright enough to cast strange shadows on Mandeep’s sleeping face. He’s scrunched himself up against Stiles, curling his long body into the small space of the couch to lay his head in Stiles’ lap. He fell asleep halfway through the movie and Stiles never bothered with waking him.

“Mmmm, you smell good,” Mandeep says quietly. Stiles buries his fingers in Mandeep’s dark hair. Mandeep smiles sleepily and rubs his head against Stiles’ thigh. “An’ comfy.”

Stiles snorts, hand fidgeting in that soft hair. Mandeep rubs his head against Stiles again like he’s tired and it feels good.

“Is your boring movie over now?”

Stiles huffs, sliding his hand down to squeeze Mandeep’s neck.

“Ethan Frome is not boring. It’s an intense and complex story.”

Mandeep kisses Stiles’ thigh. Hard things, like broken shards of knives, race through Stiles’ veins at the sensation.

“Whatever you say, baby. Next time I pick the movie though.”

Stiles shrugs. He really doesn’t care as long as it isn’t a sports movie; the inevitable feel-good ending of them makes Stiles nauseated.

Mandeep wriggles and shifts, rolling over, and crawls across Stiles. He swings to the side and Stiles leans back so they don’t bump heads. Mandeep settles in, sitting on Stiles’ thighs, one knee wedged between the couch cushions. He loops his arms around Stiles’ shoulders, leans in, and kisses Stiles on the lips. Stiles puts his hands on Mandeep’s still sleep-warm back and returns the favor.

“No more about movies,” Mandeep murmurs against Stiles’ jaw. “I want to do naughty things to you.”

Stiles kisses him, sliding his hands down to grip Mandeep’s hips loosely. Mandeep kisses him again, harder, mostly with his tongue. Stiles lets him. He’s not a big fan of slobbery kisses but he can deal with it the same way he can deal with most of Mandeep’s more unpolished affections.

Mandeep breathes in through his nose. It whistles softly from the action as he rubs his hands over Stiles’ shoulders and down his chest. He breaks the kiss when his hands find Stiles’ zipper to look down as he opens Stiles’ jeans. Stiles’ heart thumps hard in his chest, a low burn surfacing in his stomach. It might be shame but he pushes it away, pulling on Mandeep’s neck, bringing their mouths together to distract.

He kisses Mandeep hard, reaching down with one hand to squeeze where he’s already half-hard through his jeans. Mandeep makes this near puppy-ish whine, grinding into Stiles’ hand. Quickly, Stiles opens his jeans and shoves a hand inside. Mandeep kisses wetly across Stiles’ jaw, hips twitching while Stiles fondles him.

“You… you got any lube out here, babe?” Mandeep pants out, licking at Stiles’ chin. “Wanna get fucked so good by you.”

Stiles shakes his head, mind moving too slow to figure a way out of this. He wants to. So bad. He’d love to have Mandeep ride him on the couch, to suck on his nipples and feel him clench around Stiles.

“I could—ohhhh—go get it real quick.”

Again, Stiles shakes his head, hand moving.

“Take off your shirt.”

Mandeep does as asked, biting his lip and grinning. Stiles’ mouth is on his chest before his shirt hits the floor. Mandeep groans, hands on Stiles’ head, holding him to where he’s lapping and nibbling on those tiny nipples.

“Oh, baby. I want you in me so bad. Split me open so _goood_.”

Mandeep keeps talking, soft and sweet, about how much he likes it, how much he wants it, how good he feels when Stiles does it. Stiles’ mind is buzzing with his words, jerking Mandeep off, mouth moving across his chest. His stomach feels on fire, clenched at Mandeep’s words. He wants to. He wants it so bad. He hopes he can get Mandeep off before he has the chance to.

“Don’t you want to fuck me?” Mandeep asks, grinning slyly at Stiles.

Stiles nods, squeezing the head of his dick. Mandeep inhales sharply, eyes fluttering. He’s grinning when he reaches between them, down and down and down.

“No,” Stiles says, sharp, immediate. Too late.

The smile falls off Mandeep’s face, his eyes dimming, frown forming.

Stiles sighs, closing his eyes, lets his hands fall to the couch beside Mandeep’s calves. Mandeep squeezes Stiles’ dick once, firm. It feels so, so, good. His face is hot.

“Stiles?” Mandeep asks, voice soft, hesitant.

Stiles licks his lips and nods.

“You’re not—?”

Stiles nods. Again.

“But…”

Slowly, carefully, Stiles pushes Mandeep off of him. He stands, crossing the distance to the desk to lean against it, picking up his pack of cigarettes, very tempted to light up there even with the rat cage in the room. Just one wouldn’t hurt them, right? No. He could never do that to the innocent little creatures in his care.

Mandeep crosses his arms, face still confused but a little angry now, too. His nipples are shiny with spit and hard from Stiles’ mouth.

“If you didn’t want to you could have just said.”

Stiles opens up his pack of cigarettes. Most of them are gone; just four and the lucky one left. He picks stray tobacco flakes off of the ends of the filters.

“I’m cool with hearing no if you’re not in the mood, you know,” Mandeep says in that warning tone Stiles hears from him at least once a week since this started.

One of the yellow papers that cover the cotton filter has bent as if it were trying to unwrap itself. Stiles picks at it.

“You CAN tell me that. Stiles? …Are you even listening?”

Stiles sticks the cigarette in his mouth, chewing on the butt.

“Oh my gods. It’s like talking to a wall sometimes. Will you at least make some sort of gesture so I know my efforts aren’t wasted?”

Stiles rolls the now soggy and torn cigarette between his teeth, breathes in.

“I want you, I just—can’t sometimes,” Stiles says, quietly, mostly to the floor.

“You can’t what? Get it up?”

Stiles nods. His eyes hurt and he wants to go outside, have a smoke, bask in his impotence and shame. Silence stretches across the cool length of the basement. Twenty-three seconds.

“This has happened before?”

Stiles nods, taking the cigarette out of his mouth and setting it behind him on the desk. He looks up at Mandeep who is still standing there, arms crossed, eyebrows lowered, mouth curved in a strange frown that makes it almost, almost, look like he’s smiling. Stiles doesn’t answer.

“Last Saturday when you…. with your hand in…?”

Stiles nods. He’s going to get a crick from all of this nodding.

“Two days before that… then too?”

“Yes.”

Stiles watches Mandeep frown the frown of long division, calculating all the times that Stiles has gotten him off but not asked for anything in return.

“In the last seven days alone,” Mandeep says slowly, carefully, and a little angrily. “We’ve… without you… five times.”

Stiles nods, not even gathering enough vitriol to think of a snarky comment about Mandeep not being able to say the words.

“Every time?”

Stiles shrugs. His chest hurts.

“Is it me?” Mandeep asks in a small voice.

Stiles shakes his head, throat scratchy and sore, unable to say it’s him; that it’s, as always, his fault. Mandeep sighs, runs his hand through his curly hair.

“I need… I need to be alone for a little bit. I’m… I can’t believe you kept this from me, Stiles.”

Stiles nods, resigned, looks down to pick at the skin around his index finger.

He is a cascading constellation of failure, incapable and undeserving.

 

_This is my attempt to make sense of the period that followed, weeks and then months that cut loose any fixed idea I had ever had about death, about good fortune and bad, about marriage and children and memory, about grief, about the ways in which people do and do not deal with the fact that life ends, about the shallowness of sanity, about life itself._

The bench shifts but Stiles pays no attention to it, engrossed as he is. So far, this book, this book is a little too close, too good of a match. Now he’ll have to thank Mac for it.

Someone nudges his knee.

Stiles looks. Chris waves and the contents of Stiles’ stomach imitate the motion. Stiles pulls his headphones out, closes his book, and wants a cigarette. Or something just as satisfying in his mouth, his hands.

“Hey.”

“Finally ran out of clean clothes?”

Chris shrugs, picks Stiles’ book out of his lap.

“What if I just missed you?”

“What if I won the lottery?” Stiles doesn’t respond to that with. Though he does believe both are as likely. He doesn’t buy lotto tickets.

Chris huffs like he heard him anyway.

“You’re a good friend, Stiles. I’m allowed to miss your company.”

As hard as he can, Stiles thinks, “I’d fuck you over the clothes folding table in a minute,” to test Chris’ telepathic abilities. He knows better than to just assume after this long.

“The Year of Magical Thinking? What’s this about?”

Stiles stands up, grabbing his messenger bag.

“Losing the people you love.”

Stiles walks outside. The air is warm, muggy, full of the promises only mid-summer can provide. Crickets, frogs, night birds, and, distantly, a fox. Stiles leans against the bricking, pulling a cigarette out. He lights up, inhales, and breathes out smoke like it’s February and his breath fogs the air. He watches the cars pass. Sixty-eight seconds.

The Laundromat door opens, closes. The night is warm like still damp blankets from the dryer. Stiles wants to wrap himself up in it, cocoon himself in the dark, close, heat of night and breath in its moist air.

“I want us to be friends, Stiles. Can we do that?”

As is his habit of late, Stiles nods. Thirteen seconds. Chris’ hand touches Stiles’ elbow, light and cold.

“I like you in my life and I want you there.”

Stiles inhales smoke, exhales.

“Just not in your bed. I get it.”

“Do you?”

A cobalt blue F-150 pulls into the parking lot, stops itself in the space next to Chris’ SUV.

“The real question here is do you, Chris? I backed off and you’re still bringing it up.”

Chris frowns, shakes his head. In the next ten seconds of silence, Mandeep exits his truck, spots Stiles, and walks over. He smiles, hopping over the low curb onto the sidewalk.

“Finally. Do you even know how many all-night Laundromats there are within walking distance of your house?”

“Four.”

“Yeah,” Mandeep says, face darkening. “I found them all.”

Stiles resists the urge to smile, blowing a smoke ring at Mandeep’s head. It’s wobbly, barely round, wispy and turning more pointed at the bottom. Chris’ hand tightens on Stiles’ elbow. Mandeep’s eyes drift down to it then up and over Chris, turning a little cool.

“I don’t think we’ve met,” Mandeep starts, reaching out his hand.

“Chris. Stiles’ friend.”

Mandeep’s eyes crinkle like he’s actually happy to meet him as he shakes the hand Chris removed from Stiles’ arm.

“Mandeep. His boyfriend if he’s not still mad at me.”

Stiles takes a drag of his cigarette, wondering when the Twilight Zone theme song will begin playing.

“I wasn’t mad; you were mad.”

Mandeep lets go of Chris’ hand, twists his fingers together and ducks his head to look up at Stiles through those thick eyelashes. Stiles wonders how he became so adept at looking up at people he was taller than.

“Yeah… I was. I’m not sorry, you deserved it, but I’ve decided that I’d like to not be angry at you any more.”

Stiles takes another drag of his cigarette, eyes narrowed. He could end it now. Break up with him and let him find someone better, more deserving.

“That’s generous of you.”

Mandeep smiles, small, unsure.

“OK?”

Stiles shrugs, thumbing the butt of his cigarette until ash falls off the cherry like doomsday snow.

“OK,” he replies.

Mandeep grins, nearly jumping the distance between them to smother Stiles in his arms. He kisses Stiles’ cheek hard, eager, strangely sweet.

Stiles closes his eyes, pained, drops his cigarette, and tentatively touches his palms to Mandeep’s warm back. His fingers clench then, gathering his dark blue T-shirt into bunches. Blue looks so good on Mandeep.

“I’m so glad,” Mandeep murmurs into Stiles’ cheek, quiet, relieved.

Stiles pushes closer, stomach clenched. He feels weird, wrong, like he shouldn’t be doing this. Footsteps head away from them, a door opens, shuts. Stiles doesn’t have to look to know Chris has left them alone.

He wonders how he keeps managing to do this; convince people that he’s good and worthwhile, that he’s something to fight for and care about. It makes no sense.

He’s not anything.

Part of him thinks it’s too easy. Like maybe it’s deliberate, planned and tailored just for him.

Mandeep pulls back, begins to talk about how much he’s missed Stiles, about how he wishes Stiles would have not hidden his problem from him, about his thoughts on the matter itself.

Stiles half-listens, something thumping low in his guts like a warning bell, like the wind that picks up around them, whipping back and forth in front of Stiles, insinuating itself between him and Mandeep. In the distance, that fox still calls out, dogs bark in return, crickets chirp. Stiles’ relief sits like iron bullets in his lungs.

Heavy, and cold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The quote in the chapter is from Joan Didion's The Year of Magical Thinking.   
> Summary is from The Kite Runner by Khaled Hosseini. 
> 
>  
> 
> So here is a heads up::   
>  Somewhere out there on AO3 is a bonus chapter. It's been tagged with things specific to Rinse Cycle. It's not on my account and I will not link to it. These are the only hints you'll get about it. The chapter is from Chris' point of view and it has some important stuff in it that I'm about 10000% sure that no one has picked up on in the main story. If you find it, fantastic. I hope you enjoy it. If you don't, when this story is complete in its entirety, it will be taken down from the person who has been kind enough to allow me to publish it on their account and reposted in Rinse Cycle as a sort of sequel. But who knows when that will be?  
> Happy hunting. 
> 
>  
> 
> And a special thank you to the person who has been so wonderful as to post my trash on their account. I really do appreciate it.


	15. Post Blue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Perhaps the real question in the world is not  
> What is love, but how to forgive.  
> What does it take for the monstrous  
> To be delightful in the eye of God? As if beauty itself  
> Wasn't also obscene--a hand really fleshed claw, a peony  
> A flowering of blood. Or perhaps a word is really all it signifies, all  
> We can trust in fact; to name a thing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I was going to post this Wednesday night but I ended up staying late at a lady friend's house watching weird shit on her TV and cuddling on her huge fucking bean bag bed. And then I was going to post it Thursday but I ended up Skyping with the Wife and watching him play video games.   
> Friday, then, I thought. I'll do it Friday. Ended up watching the Wife play more video games, took a nap, talked to my sister, my grumpma crushed some bones in her wrist. It was my fucking birthday so I hung out with friends, got to watch the Landlord try on some pretty dresses. He found this really awesome green one that fits him fabulously and a corduroy miniskirt that reminds me satan is for real. I had cake for dinner and we all colored in pictures from this huge ass coloring book the Roommate got me for my birthday.   
> It was awesome. Best birthday I've ever had.   
> Anyway.... Here it is. Soonish the actual for realzies plot will pick up maybe. Who knows? I might.

_ Akin To Peeling Grapes _

_Like sun burnt lips coming apart_

_For the first time in seconds,_

_Her words are chitin and charred._

_Acne crawls out from under her cheeks_

_Like the first naïve blush of awareness._

_Cracked leather seats cut passively_

_Into her thighs. Wiry and treated._

_Flakes of dead skin are clinging_

_They didn’t know her teeth would_

_Tear them away from freshly pink skin._

_Her lips are falling apart._

 

Stiles pauses, taps his pen against the paper, free hand idly scratching at Mac’s ankle. She’s pretzeled herself around him on the bed, thighs on his stomach, heels digging into his side, one arm hooked around his ankle, and her own pad of paper next to his feet. She’s heavy on his stomach, ass dangling over air, barely balanced on him. Sometimes he thinks she’s actually fifteen cats in a people suit.

“OK. This is what I’ve got so far,” she says, curling and uncurling her toes against him. “Taciturn. The word was made for him, not simply in its definition of silence, but in the way it seems to say, he silently turns. Not changing, only shifting. To show a new side, or, not new but unseen. Shadows in the night, that morph and curl, a new perspective on the same. Tacitly, he turns and rewards me with a new understanding. The world was not made for him.”

Stiles takes his pen to Mac’s hip, drawing random things and words down it and her thigh, frowning.

“Hey, so what do you think?”

Stiles shrugs, drawing the kanji for self over a vein in her leg.

“Makes me seem Byronic.”

She snorts, twisting and turning, legs swinging until she’s resettled upright, half leaning on his legs.

“Honey, I hate to be the one to break this to you but you totally are.”

Stiles shakes his head not so much in denial but simply as a response. Mac smiles, resting her chin against his kneecap.

“Lemme see yours then.”

Stiles hands her his notebook then leans back against the pillows piled behind him. He occupies himself while she’s reading by drawing on her calf. He makes a little bird, wings in against it, over the widest part. He’s halfway to shading it in when Mac sighs, hugging his knees to her chest.

“You even included a reference to my baby. Ugh. I love it.”

Stiles shrugs, drawing a little V for the bird’s open mouth then coloring it in.

“The chapped lips, the acne, my freakish man-legs… you got me so well.”

Mac kisses his knee, grinning. Stiles loops in tight, slanted cursive a sentence on her leg. _My mind is sick and there’s no aspirin for this._ When he’s done, he caps his pen and lays it down at his side. Mac wriggles, twists, and crawls over him, leaving hisses in random places. She pulls and tugs and Stiles follows until they’re tangled together, a knot of limbs and skin. It’s warm, comfortable.

“You better not wake up screaming again,” Mac mumbles into his elbow, her belly pressed against his, legs curled between his thighs and under. Stiles shakes his head, the bulk of her arm under his shoulder and closes his eyes. Mac hums softly to herself some song that sounds familiar. He can’t place it.

“What’s that?” he asks, voice already slurring from sleep.

“The Angel of The Forever Sleep,” she says, wrapping her arms around him and rolling them onto their sides. She tucks her head against his chest, hooking her leg into his. She starts to sing.

“Sleep, sleep, sleepy head. Right to a place of mercy. Ride on these things, my angel wings. Hold to them tiiii-iiight. It’s time to go goodnight. In the middle of the night, float away lest the fears you hold hold fast to the earth, forever to haunt. Hello. Hello, time to go goodnight. Good night.”

Stiles sinks his fingers into her hair, curling around her, trying to shield this precious human from everything bad as she sings. He breathes deep and listens, letting her soft words and the puff of her breathe on his chest lull him to sleep. He can’t protect her from him but he can try.

 

“Even seeing you do it, I still can’t believe sometimes that it’s real—monsters and magic and all of that.”

Stiles smiles, fiddling with his iron sword pendant, twisting it up then letting it twirl back out. It’s like their positions have been reversed; Stiles the one helping Donald sort out the mess of his mind instead of the other way around.

“You don’t have to be supernatural to be a monster.”

Stiles wonders as Donald shifts, sliding his hands over the arms of his chair and nodding, if it’s obvious he’s talking about himself.

“You’re not a monster, Stiles. You’re a survivor of a terrible situation.”

Stiles shakes his head. Apparently it is. He wraps his hand around the pendant. It’s always ice cold to the touch despite Stiles never taking it off.

“A drunk driver kills a teen, he’s still a murderer.”

Donald shrugs, mouth a tight line.

“He is but is that logic really applicable here? Before or after you were… possessed, did you ever think or act on impulses or thoughts as malicious as its?”

Stiles breathes in deep, letting go of the pendant like it hurts him. Quick, flinching.

“Yes,” he says and thinks about the joy and triumph he felt helping to kill Peter, on how he had wanted to tear the alphas apart for what they did to Erica. He should have gone on a one-man revenge/suicide mission and saved everyone the pain and grief he would cause later. Everything would be so much better now if he had.

 

Stiles shuts the backdoor quietly behind him, tired and ready to lie down and let the rest of the day pass him by quietly.

“Stiles? Is that you?”

Stiles takes the three steps upstairs instead of the flight down into the basement. Renee leans into the kitchen, eyes wide, the news playing on the TV he can’t see.

“You gotta see this, dude. It’s—It’s… you just gotta come see this.”

Stiles hangs his keys and messenger bag on the coat hooks by the backdoor and follows her into the living room. She’s sitting on the couch, eyes glued to the TV.

Stiles sits down on the couch and watches.

It’s a news crew sitting in their car, filming people climbing through the broken window of a Footlocker. It takes Stiles a minute to realize. He knows that area. He’s been there. It’s just down Florissant Road, on the other side of 270.

“I’ve been switching between KMOV and KSDK. They’re showing the same on both. This is down the street, Stiles. This is—This is… I got my shoes from there.”

Stiles’ heart settles, quiet, vicious, low in his chest. They switch views, show the QT not far away. Stiles has been there. Often. It’s not even five miles away. So close, he could walk there now. The QT is burning, flames docile but malicious and Stiles’ heart freezes. An AutoZone smashed, car parts strewn like confetti at a party.

Mechanically, Stiles gets his phone out, scrolls through his contact list, hits call. The phone rings. Five times. Answering machine.

“Hey, you’ve reached Mandeep. I’m not able to answer right now. Leave a messa—”

Stiles hangs up. Hits redial.

Five rings.

“Hey, you’ve reached—”

Hangs up. Hits redial.

Five rings.

“Hey, you’ve reached Mandeep. I’m not able to answer right now. Leave a message or text me. I’ll get back as soon as possible. Thanks.”

Beep.

“Call me.”

Stiles hangs up.

“What started as a peaceful protest for the killing of Michael Brown has—it’s turned into this. People are looting, breaking windows, stealing. It’s a heartbreaking sight tonight. The police are out in full force but it’s not…”

Stiles tunes it out, doing the math. If it started in front of the Ferg Police Station on South Florissant, headed north. New Halls Ferry. Lindbergh. Hanley. If it followed the roads, stayed south of 270 and out of Florissant… South Florissant, take McDonnell, get onto Lindbergh—

Chris.

Stiles stands up. Quick. Too quick. The world swoops around him. He sways.

Chris lives off of Utz. That’s not far away. That’s too close. They could get him. They could… Stiles heads for the backdoor, for his keys and bag.

“Hey!” Renee calls after him. “Where are you going? It’s not safe out there!”

Stiles slings his bag over his shoulder, walks to the coat closet. He can’t tell her that that’s the point. He can’t tell her that he’s scarier than some humans with grief-fueled rage. So he says nothing, just opens the coat closet, reaches in behind the winter coats, passed the vacuum, and pulls out his bat.

Special order. Mountain ash. Dense, heavy in his hands. Steel core. It’s his motherfucking wand of bashing. It feels so good to hold it again.

Stiles leaves out the front door, Renee still shouting at him.

The first mile of his walk is quiet, some sirens going off in the distance, but he can feel it now. Or. He imagines he can. He imagines he feels the fire, imagines he can taste the outrage thick on his tongue. His heart quickens, beating sharp and sweet. He feels like if he followed his feet, listened to the ache in his bones, that it would take him right to it, to the heart of it.

He’s on Hanley now, not willing to take Lindbergh all the way down to Utz, crossing right in front of the Laundromat. He hears sirens but they don’t register.

He’s halfway across and they’re tearing down the road. He stops. The lights look like blood and bruises and the sirens sound like howls. They swerve around him and he turns, eyes glued to the officer behind the wheel. He didn’t look quite right but Stiles doesn’t have time to figure out why.

He starts to run.

He doesn’t stop for anything. Not for the pack of police cars. Not for the people screaming in the streets. Not for his own burning lungs and legs. He doesn’t so much halt at Chris’ door as run into it, hitting his fist into it in time with his heartbeat; fast and frantic.

Ten seconds.

Twenty-three knocks.

Chris opens the door and Stiles falls in.

“Stiles?”

Stiles straightens, looks at Chris. Aside from the sleep bruises under his eyes, he’s in one piece and unharmed. Armed, too. A shiny Colt Python, hanging down against the long line of his thigh, his finger disciplined right where it should be, stretched out and pointing down the line of the gun.

“I couldn’t call.”

Chris licks his lips, nods, and sets the gun on the coffee table.

“So you thought you’d run over with a bat? Across town?”

Stiles shakes his head and sits down, dropping the bat next to his feet. It feels like acid is running through his veins. The news is on.

Chris sits down next to him.

They watch in silence as their neighborhood is torn apart.

Forty-six seconds.

Chris’ fingers touch his, wrap around his hand. Stiles realizes he’s shaking.

“I’m OK,” Chris says softly, thumb rubbing over the dry skin of Stiles’ knuckles.

“I’m not.”

Chris squeezes his hand.

“I know.”

Fifty-three seconds of silence. They show a picture of the kid on the news. He was just a child. Gone, taken away from his family. Back to a live camera. Officers putting rioters in the back of what the newscaster calls a “paddy wagon.”

“My boyfriend is out there,” Stiles says quietly, shakily.

“Mandeep?”

Stiles nods, eyes glued to the TV.

“He’s part of the Florissant police force. Not answering his phone.”

Chris pulls Stiles in, wraps his arms around him, runs his hand through Stiles’ hair.

“He’ll be fine.”

Stiles shakes his head. Mandeep won’t. No one ever is. But he lets Chris hold him just the same. As if it helps.

Somewhere around three or four in the morning, Stiles falls asleep there on the couch, head on Chris’ stomach, fingers uselessly clutching at his shirt. Chris might fall asleep then as well but Stiles doesn’t know.

He dreams of a bright light, of howls in the distance, of a presence above him, fighting a battle with shades unknown. He dreams of Mandeep trying to reach him but unable, of scary things in the dark. The flash of a silver knife through winds of his own making.

Stiles wakes up and he’s not alone. Chris is there behind him, wedged into the space between Stiles and the couch. His arms are around Stiles, one hand pressed flat and low on Stiles’ stomach, other hanging over his hip.

For a moment, Stiles simply lays there, staring at the dark TV screen, Chris a cool comfort behind him. Until Chris shifts in his sleep, pressing some how closer. What Stiles feels against his ass cheek is not cool or particularly comforting. It’s actually kind of glorious, though, Stiles thinks as he tries to stay as still as possible. The little liar. He totally wants Stiles. The evidence is right there against his ass.

Chris sighs this big, gusty thing, hips moving slightly. Stiles could rub against him, reach back and touch him, turn over and kiss him, fondle him into wakefulness then—no. Stiles can’t. Chris said no and… _Mandeep_.

Stiles rolls off the couch carefully and crawls on all fours until he’s a good foot or two away from Chris. He stands, takes his phone and smokes off the coffee table, and quietly steps outside.

It’s cool but not quiet outside. Stiles can still hear sirens not far away. Shakily, he pulls a cigarette out of the pack and digs through his pocket for a lighter. His hands are trembling when he pulls his lighter out. It takes him a good forty-seven seconds to light his cigarette.

When he does, Stiles sighs then leans against the half wall on Chris’ small porch. Stiles unlocks his phone.

Mac, Mac, Dad, Renee, Paul, Andrew… but no messages or calls from Mandeep.

The door opens behind him, closes.

“Morning, Stiles.”

Stiles grunts, opening his Facebook messenger. Sometimes the doofus he calls a boyfriend sends stuff on there even though Stiles only goes on about once a month.

“You hear anything from him yet?”

Stiles shakes his head.

A hand, light enough Stiles barely feels it, touches his back.

“I’m sure he’s fine.”

Stiles shakes his head again then takes a drag on his cigarette.

“He will be.”

Stiles flicks ash over the wall and onto the grass. He doesn’t have the words or energy to explain to Chris how he’s wrong. He’ll figure it out himself.

“I mean it, St—”

“Stiles!”

Stiles’ head shoots up. Across the grass and skirting around the edge of a tree is Mandeep, uniform torn, dirt on his face, hair streaked with some kind of powder making it look oddly gray.

“Shit!” Stiles hisses, throwing himself off the porch. He half-walks, half-jogs across the field. Mandeep picks up his pace, running towards Stiles. Stiles stops three feet away. Mandeep mirrors him, grinning.

“I’m so glad I—”

Stiles hauls back and punches him in the face. Mandeep stumbles from the blow and falls on his ass.

“YOU FUCKING CALL WHEN THERE’S A RIOT, ASSHOLE!”

Stiles drops to his knees on top of Mandeep, grabs his wrists, and pins Mandeep to the ground. Mandeep flails briefly, opening his mouth to talk. Stiles doesn’t want to hear any of his bullshit so he kisses him hard, like his life could end because of it. It almost feels like it does when Mandeep returns the kiss.

“I’m… sorr—mmf,” Mandeep says between Stiles’ attacks on his mouth. “I’ll, ah, I’ll so call next—oh – next time.”

“Shut up,” Stiles orders, letting go of Mandeep’s wrists to lower himself further on top of him, to dig his nails into the soil next to Mandeep’s head.

“OK.”

Mandeep smiles, arms wrapping around Stiles.

“I’m so pissed at you,” Stiles hisses, dropping little kisses over Mandeep’s jaw.

Mandeep laughs.

“OK.”

Stiles is beginning to like that word.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Summary is a quote from What was There To Bring Me To Delight But To Love and Be Loved? by Paisley Rekdal.  
> Mac is singing The Angel of the Forever Sleep by Blue October.   
> Chapter title is, as always, a Placebo song. 
> 
> Oh. And the poems that Stiles and Mac wrote aren't from anyone. I made them up. Enjoy my shitty half-assed poetry there. It's cool if you don't like it. I don't either. 
> 
> Now if you'll excuse me, I have to get ready for a HOIR event that I should probably go to, I guess.


	16. Bright Lights

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I try to whisper, so no one figures it out   
> I'm not a bad man, I'm just overwhelmed   
> It's cause of these things, it's cause of these things   
> The crowd on the street walks slowly, don't mind the rain   
> Lovers hold hands to numb the pain,   
> Gripping tightly to something that they will never own   
> And those by themselves by choice or by some reward

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I would have posted this earlier-- Christmas eve, when I finished it-- but I got a text from the Roommate. I thought there was some sort of time sensitive baking emergency and that he needed ground cloves immediately so I drove across fucking town to deliver them to where he was cooking at a lady friend of ours apartment. Turns out? Not so much.   
> The tiny fuck just didn't want to put clothes on.  
> I'd say fuck him but he likes that too much so instead don't fuck him. Deny his plush little ass and those stupid pouty lips. I am so pissed at him. Who doesn't put raisins in their oatmeal cookies anyway? 
> 
> That gay little cockwhore. That's who.
> 
> You know what? Just for this next time he asks me to marry him I'm not going to just ignore him like usual. Nuh huh. I'm gonna tell him no. I don't give a flying rat's ass in hell it's legal now. I'm not gonna tie myself to some tiny little runt of a man that can make me not only see but pay to sit through all three billion tortuous hours of Les Mis in theater. Nope. I may be dumb but I ain't stupid. Damn him and his dumb brown eyes and stupid little ears.  
> Jesus Christ.

“Is there something wrong with Alphonse?”

Stiles looks up from his phone. Mac is sitting, cross-legged on his bed, tiny little scratches already there on her thighs from Ed and Wyn using her as a playground.

“Why?”

Mac shrugs, tilting her head to the side and running her index finger down Al’s back.

“He just seems less energetic than usual.”

Stiles sets his phone facedown on the mattress and carefully shuffles over the space between them.

“Hey, baby boy,” Stiles says softly.

Al opens his eyes, raises his head a little. Stiles stretches his hand over Al’s tiny body, pets slowly down that soft fur, then runs his palm over Al’s tail. It feels a little cool, but not terribly so, and slightly more dry than normal. Al sneezes this miniature squeak of a noise.

“Oh my god, that’s not fair. Even his sneezes are adorable.”

Mac bends over him, scratching between Al’s ears. Al shakes his head, crawls out from under Mac’s hand, and stretches out next to Stiles’ arm. Stiles frowns and picks him up, sitting back slowly, careful no to sit on Wyn or Ed who have a love of darting under people when they move to sit down, and inspects Al. His little boy sneezes again, sits back slowly, begins to clean his face. Before he does, Stiles sees it. A red colored liquid on his tiny pink nose.

Stiles’ heart makes a false start, thumping strangely in his chest. He holds Al up to his ear and closes his eyes. Al’s heartbeat sounds fine, fast and tiny like a humming bird’s, but his breathing… heavy, loud enough for Stiles to hear, it rattles slightly like crinkling paper.

“Is he sick?”

Stiles shrugs, cupping Al to his chest and slowly laying down against the pillows. Al sighs, nibbles at Stiles’ finger, and closes his eyes.

“He’s always sick.”

“It’s that, uh, microplasma thingy again?”

Stiles nods, lightly running his thumb over Al’s fragile little jaw.

“That’s good, right? That means you can take him to the vet again and get him a little rattie Z-pack and he’ll get better. Right?”

Al sighs, curling up under Stiles’ hand. He doesn’t answer her; he doesn’t tell her that Al is over two and that this flare up could kill him. He doesn’t want her to cry.

“We can take him now. The clinic in Webster is twenty-four hour. I’ll pay for it if you don’t have the money,” Mac says, voice strained, face scrunched. She remembers what happened last time, what happened with Hoenheim.

Stiles sighs. Al sneezes. Ed and Wyn chase each other over and under the blankets.

“Stiles?”

He nods, stroking Al’s ridiculously pink ear.

“Help me put away the trouble makers.”

It doesn’t take long to get Wyn and Ed away, to ready the travel cage, to get into Mac’s car and on the road. With the cage in the back seat and Al on his lap, Stiles calls the clinic.

“Webster Animal Hospital. This is Darla.”

“Hey, Darla. It’s Stiles.”

“Hey! What’s going on, young man?”

“It’s Alphonse. Is he in?”

There’s quiet over the line. Al sneezes.

“Just sent him a message. You swing by and we can wait together.”

“Kay.”

Stiles hangs up. He looks out the window and watches the view turn from houses to businesses to fields to squat and cramped buildings, Al curled up in Stiles’ lap under his hand. Stiles wonders what Chris is doing right now, wonders if he’d bother taking Stiles to the vet at one in the morning like Mac, decides it doesn’t matter.

When Mac parks in the small lot in front of the animal clinic, Stiles gets out quickly, cradling Al to his stomach. Mac helps him put Al in the cage then hurries ahead to get the doors. Stiles goes straight to the check in desk, sets Al down on it, and waits.

Darla comes around the corner from where Stiles knows the large scales for dogs are kept and smiles.

“Alphonse,” she chirps, getting behind the counter. “How’s my favorite fuzzy little buddy?”

She wiggles her fingers just on the other side of the cage. Al doesn’t respond. She tutts.

“Poor old guy… he’s definitely not feeling well, is he?”

Stiles nods, reaching out quietly. Mac takes his hand and grips it tight. Al is her favorite.

“Well, I’ll get him checked in, dear. You go ahead to your usual exam room.”

Stiles picks up Al’s cage, flashes a brief almost-smile at Darla, and heads back, Mac walking behind him.

“Here,” she says. “Let me,” and opens the door for him. He sets Al on the table and sits on the small bench in the corner, tucking his hands under his thighs. Mac sits down next to him, turns, and swings her legs over his. She loops her arms around his neck and pulls him in to hide against her chest.

Al sneezes. The fluorescents in the room flicker briefly before holding strong and bright.

 

The upstairs living room ceiling is far less interesting than the downstairs one, Stiles thinks, not paying attention to the program playing on TV. It’s a rerun of Cosmos—The Sagan one—that Stiles has seen dozens of times and Mandeep is fidgeting with the buttons on Stiles’ shirt. He’s on the third down, slowly fiddling with each one until it becomes undone. Stiles knows that Mandeep is trying to be sneaky but it’s very much not working.

They’re sprawled out on the area rug, blankets and pillows everywhere but Stiles still can’t relax. Mandeep finally gets the next one open and sighs, resting his head on Stiles’ shoulder as his hand creeps down to the next.

“You know, I thought you were more capable than this,” Stiles says, running a hand over Mandeep’s lean back. Mandeep stills.

“What?”

Stiles looks down at him, half-frowning.

“I’ve never met anyone who had this much trouble taking off my shirt.”

Mandeep grins, face flushing.

“I uh… was trying to be all smooth about it.”

Stiles pats his head then buries his fingers into that curly hair.

“I know—we already tried but—”

Stiles breathes in and lets out a gusty sigh.

“Just ‘cause I can’t get it up doesn’t mean I don’t want to fuck.”

Mandeep’s flush darkens and he ducks his head, still fiddling with the button on Stiles’ shirt.

“Yeah, but you can’t—”

Stiles tightens his grip on Mandeep’s hair and tugs him up. He kisses Mandeep, fast, and dirty, and long. He only stops when Mandeep has bunched the material of Stiles’ shirt and made one of those odd whining noises he makes when turned on.

“You can fuck me,” Stiles says then lightly teethes at Mandeep’s thick bottom lip. Mandeep shifts his legs, tangling one with Stiles’.

“I’ve— _we’ve_ never done that. Are you—are you sure? I mean—” Mandeep pauses, looks down at his fingers, unclenches his hand to smooth it down Stiles’ chest. “You can’t really… _enjoy_ it like this.”

Stiles huffs and hauls Mandeep the rest of the way on top of him. He’s both irritated and amused but the erection he can feel pressing down into him is making up for both.

“Shut up and fuck me, you asshole boyscout.”

Mandeep laughs, cheeks so dark Stiles wonders why they don’t burst into flame.

“You’re such a sweet-talker,” Mandeep murmurs and kisses him.

It doesn’t take long for Mandeep to undress him or himself. It takes longer for him to find the lube and condoms in his overnight bag. Stiles has two fingers inside of him and a mouth on his chest shortly after that.

Mandeep licks at Stiles’ peck, tracing the lines of permanent ink in his skin, those long fingers working their way deeper inside him. His stomach feels on fire, clenched up and roiling, hips jerking, a cool and ever growing layer of spit on his skin. Mandeep slowly adds another finger, careful, gentle. Stiles may bite him for it.

“I’ve always wondered,” Mandeep says in between slow licks and soft kisses. “What do your tattoos mean?”

Stiles digs his fingers into the meat of Mandeep’s shoulders, twitches his hips.

“Nothing,” Stiles bites out, not willing to explain protection runes, spells of safety, marks of self. Mandeep wouldn’t understand and Stiles doesn’t want his hand to stop. It feels so good. Stiles feels so good. What he wouldn’t give for Mandeep to go harder, leave bruises, scratch at Stiles’ too-tight skin. “Just fuck me already.”

Mandeep huffs, smiling, then sucks lightly at Stiles’ nipple.

“A‘right, baby. If you’re sure…”

“Mandeep. Put your dick inside me or I’ll do it for you,” Stiles snaps out, skin irritatingly tight from the gentleness, the goodness.

Mandeep gets up on his knees, crawls between Stiles’ legs, and salutes, grinning.

“Sir yes, sir, officer bossy-pants.”

Stiles kicks him for that. Not hard, no, but he does kick him. Mandeep catches his foot before he has time to set it back down. He bends, lifting Stiles’ foot up by the ankle, and softly kisses the arch. Something weird and hard catches in Stiles’ throat. His toes curl. Mandeep looks down at him like that, his hair half covering the look in his eyes.

“You’re so beautiful,” Mandeep murmurs, lips still against the soft spot of Stiles’ foot.

Stiles stills, then wriggles, takes in a deep breath. He doesn’t know what to say to that. Mandeep slides his hand up to Stiles’ knee, trailing his lips after it, guiding Stiles’ leg over his shoulder.

His mouth pauses at the bend to Stiles’ knee to leave a wet kiss there while his hand continues up, tracing over arcs of tattoos and flesh alike.

Stiles clutches at the blankets underneath him. Something about the way Mandeep moves scares him, something about how Mandeep pauses to lick and kiss every tattoo makes Stiles’ heart race.

He forgets all about it when Mandeep slides into him. Forgets everything all together when he begins to move, when he shrugs Stiles’ leg off his shoulder until the bend of his knee rests against the bend of Mandeep’s elbow, when Mandeep kisses him deep and gentle and cautious.

“Mandeep,” Stiles whispers, afraid to raise his voice, when it doesn’t look like he’s going to speed up. Mandeep grunts. Stiles slides his hands down his back to finger into the flesh around his spine. “I said fuck me not rock me to sleep.”

Mandeep pauses, stoops down to lick a line over Stiles’ throat.

“OK,” he says, pushes into Stiles hard then pauses again. “OK?”

Stiles huffs out half a laugh, stomach churning.

“Again.”

Mandeep complies with one more hard thrust. Stiles digs his fingers into that strong back hard enough to bruise.

“Again.”

Mandeep fucks into him again then pauses and Stiles grins, catching on to his game. So Stiles chants the word out over and over, gradually picking up pace until Mandeep is well on his way to fucking Stiles through the eighty year old floorboards below them.

“Yesss,” Stiles hisses out, breathless, full, pained. “Fuck, Mandeep. Agai—harder. Come on. Again again!””

Mandeep makes this strange little growling whine and shoves his hands under Stiles’ back, lifting his lower half off the floor and plows into Stiles, somehow managing to keep his face buried in Stiles’ neck. He sucks hard on the skin in his mouth and Stiles wheezes, arms flailing.

“Sssshit. Mandeep. A-g-a-gain!”

Stiles jerks his hips, looking down at Mandeep’s flexing back, watching tension ripple through it like stones in water.

Mandeep makes this odd growl-like moan and pulls out, easily flips Stiles over, and pulls him up on his knees, yanks until Stiles’ back is against his chest, and pushes back in. Stiles is breathing in and out these abrupt, sharp, whistles of air, one of Mandeep’s large hands splayed across his belly, other groping at Stiles’ peck. Mandeep presses his mouth against Stiles’ neck and fucks him so hard that, if he wasn’t holding Stiles upright, he isn’t sure he would be. It feels so good, so wonderful, it’s almost like there’s frantic birds in his stomach, fighting to get out.

Mandeep’s hand slides down, off his belly, and fondles Stiles’ limp cock, drags firm fingers over his balls. Stiles stops breathing briefly, sighs it all out when Mandeep pinches his nipple, and reaches a hand back to grab Mandeep’s hair.

“Fuck, fuck. Fuck fuck fuck,” Stiles groans out.

Mandeep lets out a noise that nearly sounds like something else then pushes Stiles down onto all fours, fucking him so hard it feels like he’s trying to hollow Stiles out one thrust at a time.

“Your limp dick really shouldn’t be turning be on this much, “ Mandeep pants out, hand alternating between cradling and playing with Stiles’ dick.

Stiles’ laugh at that turns into a moan when Mandeep tugs on it. He feels fevered, jostled, turned on beyond all belief.

Mandeep molds himself to Stiles’ back, humps hard enough into him that Stiles keeps letting out these involuntary grunts of impact, and mouths at Stiles’ neck.

“Do you like it, baby?” Mandeep asks, licking a line over Stiles’ spine. “To be used and get nothing in return?”

He pulls on Stiles’ soft cock, bites down on the tender flesh where neck meets shoulder, continuously ramming into Stiles.

Stiles’ arms shake, thighs twitching, stomach jerking. He feels overloaded, a flash of otherness he can’t explain shoots through him.

He might have come then but he can’t. He screams, too full and too undone to cope with it all, everything goes static-white.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

_Wolves howl in a forest of white trees._

_A sublime green corn moon._

_Something cracks but doesn’t break._

 

 

 

_A coal-hot wind picks up the challenge of the wolves._

_Becomes louder._

 

 

 

_Momentarily drowns them out._

_A man screams._

_It sounds like roots tearing free from the dank ground._

_A voice calls to him, barely to be heard through the cacophony._

_It sings._

_My poor bae._

_My poor bae._

_Chains of his own making._

_My poor bae. My poor bae._

_The trees’ leaves are made of embers._

_Its bark is burnt offerings to those that should not be named,_

_We cannot be tamed._

_Let them learn this message._

_Show them how the Wilds_ burn _._

_Orange._

_White._

_Static._

_Static._

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

_Static._

Stiles comes to standing in the middle of the room. He staggers, wheezing. He should be soaked in sweat but he’s dry. Stiles turns slowly, carefully, on shaky legs.

Mandeep is sitting on his ass at the edge of the rug, staring up at Stiles with wide eyes. Stiles’ legs give out.

He falls like so much useless weight onto the floor.

“St-Stiles!”

Stiles wheezes, feeling funny in a way that’s all too familiar. His face burns.

“Are you OK? Stiles? Can you, can you hear me?”

Stiles nods, pushing at the hands that Mandeep reaches out with. He doesn’t want Mandeep to touch him. He doesn’t want anything to touch him right now.

“OK. OK,” Mandeep says, something strange in his voice. “You, you like screamed then went limp and, I don’t know? Starting shaking? Then stood up and when I tried to, when I tried to go near you—”

Stiles covers Mandeep’s mouth with his hand, shakes his head, then scoots away from him. He pulls his knees against his chest, hands in front of his face and counts. He needs to know. He has to.

“One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, thumb, thumb.”

Stiles pauses, licks his lips, does it again. And again. And again and again and again.  He’s still not sure if this is him, is real.

 

He’s still not sure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Summary is lyrics from a She Wants Revenge song.  
> I'm still pissed at the Roommate.   
> Those cookies were shitty anyway. He can go to his family's holiday meal on his own. Fuck that noise. I aint about to spend an entire night defending him to his family when I'm pissed at him. They're all assholes. 
> 
>  
> 
> Alright. Nevermind. You know what that little punk just did? Came out onto the back porch wearing one of my hats and coat, lit up a cigarette (little shit doesn't even actually smoke whatthefuck) and said, "I think I'm turning in to you; all I want is to smoke and drink coffee and I'm angry at everything."  
> And then he glared at me the angriest grumpy cat face I've ever seen.   
> Why does he do this to me? I was trying to be angry at him. Motherfucking little ball of sunshine.  
> Fuck him.  
> Fuck him hard.   
> Like, the hardest.   
> Goddamnit.  
> I hate him so much.


	17. Summer's Gone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You trick your lovers  
> That you're wicked and divine  
> You may be a sinner  
> But your innocence is mine  
> Please me, show me how it's done  
> Tease me, you are the one

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope everyone had a New Years as good as mine!  
> I got kissed and groped by beautiful women, the Roommate wore his shiny red Special Occasions and Tuesdays pants (and managed to keep them as well as the rest of his clothes on through the entirety of the party), a gorgeous man went down on his knees to beg me for a kiss, I got a priest to show me his ass in the kitchen (and later my bed), and at midnight, everyone went around leaving little kisses and whispering happy New Years into each other's ears. It was fantastic.  
> So, on behalf of the HOIR, I fondly wish you all a pleasurable and prosperous year. Non peccatum In Sincero Delectamento.  
> And remember: everything changes, nothing is lost.

“Well… I would have liked to see more of an improvement than this,” Nguyen says, cleaning off the tiny ear scope that had just been in Al’s ear. Mac squeezes Stiles’ hand tight, frown heavy on her face. “I’m going to prescribe some eardrops to go along with his current medicine; it’s moved into his ear infection now. And I’m going to ask that you come back with him next week, too.”

Stiles nods. Mac shakes his hand off and stands.

“I’m… gonna use the restroom real quick.”

Stiles knows she’s going there to have a private place to cry. Nguyen nods, watches her leave, then takes in a deep breath, putting Al back in his cage. Stiles licks his lips, watching his frail little boy lie there and do nothing.

“She’s taking this hard.”

Stiles nods.

“Alphonse is her favorite.”

Nguyen’s face takes on a small uncomfortable looking frown. Stiles knows he wants to go to her, wants to wrap his arms around her and tell her the lie everyone who cares tells. Stiles wants someone to do the same for him. He knows it’s a lie but sometimes lies are the only comfort there is.

Everything will be OK.

 

Stiles is sitting in a field near Natural Bridge. He has a small half circle of spent cigarette butts in front of him stuck in the soft ground. He’s watching planes take off and land from Lambert, smoking away the afternoon. In between the roar of jets, during the silence, Stiles’ eyes fix on a large flock of small black birds that flit through the sky in a pattern of agitation that Stiles cannot decipher.

He knows there’s a reason to it the same way he knows that he could look up the schedule for flights so as to be able to predict when they leave or arrive but he has decided to expend no energy in comprehending when or why these events happen and to accept them as they come.

“Stiles?”

Stiles doesn’t look, instead, he buries the cherry of his cigarette into the dirt. He’s nowhere near finishing this pattern and does not think he can with only this one pack of smokes.

Chris sits down next to him.

“What’re you doing out here?”

Stiles shrugs, says nothing. He has no answer for Chris.

Sixteen seconds of silence.

Chris lightly touches Stiles’ shoulder. Stiles shivers at the coolness of his palm. He leans into it, keeps leaning until Chris’ arms are around him and, with his ear to Chris’ chest, he can hear a heartbeat.

It slows down while he listens, becomes steady and even. Stiles closes his eyes, breathes, and listens.

“Shhhh, you’re you. You’re no one else.”

Stiles shakes his head, wonders why Chris’ shirt is damp. Realizes it’s because of him. Chris smoothes his hand down Stiles’ back and that’s it. That’s enough.

Stiles pushes him onto his back, crawls over him and stills. He looks down at Chris like that, watches his eyes go from wide and surprised to something else, his tongue dart out to lick his lips. His hands gently touch Stiles’ sides. Stiles shudders, bows his head.

_Wants._

“Stiles,” Chris says softly. Stiles knows he’s going to warn him off, remind him of his rejection, gentle Stiles into thinking better.

Stiles shakes his head, slides off to the side, curls up against Chris in the grass and dirt and fading sunlight. He presses his face into the bristle of Chris’ neck, sighs. Stiles wants to kiss him, wants to undress him and claim him with mouth and hands and spit until Chris is his, until Chris shudders and comes undone. He wants it so much his chest burns with it.

Chris cups the back of his head.

Stiles can’t have him.

His free hand pets across Stiles’ arm.

Stiles doesn’t deserve him.

Every breath that Chris takes echoes in Stiles’ ears.

He wants to disturb them.

Stiles would like nothing more than to make that steady heart beat fast.

He can’t have him.

 

“I had another episode,” Stiles says, playing with his sword pendant.

“Have you been taking your medication?”

Stiles nods.

“Can you tell me what set it off?” Donald asks, leaning forward in his chair. Stiles licks his lips, twisting up the leather thong of his pendant.

“Getting fucked by my boyfriend.”

Seventeen seconds of silence.

“Was there anything particular about the… event that you think may have triggered it?”

Stiles shrugs, dropping the pendant so it hangs over his chest, dimply glinting in the light from the open window.

“I don’t know… I don’t think I remember all of it, though.”

Donald weaves his fingers together, frowns.

“Why’s that?”

“Because—” Stiles pauses, looks down at the dirt on his shoes. “Because I remember being on all fours, him saying… stuff, his hand—then white and I’m standing in the middle of the room and he’s a couple feet away looking all freaked out.”

Stiles’ face heats up as he talks and he fidgets, picking at the dirt under his nails.

“What was he saying? What were you doing?” Does anything stand out about it?”

Stiles nods, rubs at his still-sore shoulder.

“Something. Yeah. He was—he was talking about how I… couldn’t get it up and he was, uh, playing with my dick and then—” Stiles stops talking, wondering why he’s suddenly having trouble with talking about fucking; he never has before. Donald clears his throat. Stiles doesn’t need to look to know he’s uncomfortable with this.

“And then what?”

Stiles takes in a deep breath, looks Donald in the eyes, loses his nerve, looks out the window. There’s a breeze whipping the trees outside back and forth as if it can’t decide which way to go.

Stiles can relate.

“And then he bit me and I screamed. I can’t remember anything else.”

“Did it hurt?”

Stiles shakes his head.

“Not at the time. When he did it, it felt good.”

Donald nods.

“And now?”

Stiles breathes out, can’t stop fidgeting.

“Now it just… feels wrong. _I_ feel wrong.”

“How so?”

“Like… I don’t belong in my own skin anymore. I feel like—I feel like he’s still in me, like his teeth are still on my skin and I can’t shake it off. I feel like he’s pushing me out.”

Donald breathes in deep, sits back, still frowning.

“How long have you two been dating?”

Stiles shrugs.

“A while.”

“Was this the first time you two...?”

Stiles shakes his head then pauses.

“What is it, Stiles?”

Stiles bites his tongue, sawing his teeth into it.

“It wasn’t the first time we had sex but it was the first time he fucked me.”

Donald nods.

“And do you think that maybe you’re reacting to this change? Something like that… it can make you feel,” Donald licks his lips. “Exposed.”

Stiles frowns.

“But that’s not nearly the first time someone has fucked me.”

Donald shrugs.

“Sometimes that doesn’t matter.”

“So… you’re saying it won’t happen again.”

Donald smiles this small, bright thing. Stiles wonders at it.

“That’s up to you.”

Stiles is distinctly not relieved.

 

Cool, dark, the ceiling is not an unusual sight for him even with how he can change it, move the panels to reveal hidden places, storage spaces above him at all times.

Stiles’ phone vibrates, lighting up the dark of his room. He picks it up from the nightstand, careful not to move too quick and jostle Mandeep awake.

It’s Paul calling.

Stiles ignores the call, sends a text that says he can’t talk.

Forty-eight seconds later, his phone vibrates.

[That’s too bad. You should come over. ;)]

Thirty-nine seconds.

[I don’t have the time to.]

Fifteen seconds.

[Too busy to fuck but not too busy to text?]

[Can’t.]

[More’s the pity.]

Stiles bites his lip, looks over at Mandeep, sprawled across the bed, his arm over Stiles’ stomach.

[What’d you want to do?]

Twenty-eight seconds.

[To fuck you on the kitchen table.]

Stiles’ stomach does a somersault. He wants to. Can’t, but wants. And with how Mandeep had said no tonight, it wasn’t like Stiles was going to get any tonight at all.

But… he can’t.

He’s with Mandeep even if he is sensible enough to be freaked by the last time they fucked. Stiles’ shoulder throbs, hot and angry, where Mandeep bit.

[Tell me about it.]

Stiles hits send before his better senses can kick in.

This counts, Stiles tells himself even as he’s gently removing Mandeep’s arm from across him. This counts and he’s a horrible person.

It doesn’t stop him from locking the bathroom door behind him or sitting on the cold tile floor.

[Can’t come over but you want to hear about it?]

[Yes]

Stiles’ stomach churns. He feels guilty already.

[Just come over, kiddo. We can do it for real.]

Stiles glares at his phone, unaccountably angry.

[You want to get something tonight or what?]

[No need to get snippy, boy. I’ll do it.]

Stiles is both relieved and even more pissed at the same time. If that’s at Paul or himself, he doesn’t bother to figure out.

[I’d rip your shirt off before the door shut.]

Stiles waits, already interested, for the next one.

[Shove down your pants and push you against the wall.]

[Not gonna pick you up You don’t deserve that]

Stiles agrees with him and, as reward, begins to fondle himself.

[Just gonna lube up that hole and fuck you into the wall]

[See how many times you choke back pleas without touchin your cock]

Stiles bites his lip, drags fingers over his balls, wishes he thought ahead enough to bring lube in with him.

[what would you do, boy?]

[What would you say to deserve to come with my dick in you]

Stiles doesn’t answer, just fists his cock.

[Tell me.]

Stiles huffs, slowing down his hand to type.

[You know.]

[I want to hear it.]

Of course he does, Stiles thinks, closing his eyes. Paul never just lets him be passive. Submissive, yes, never passive.

Stiles curses everything as he stands.

[H/O]

Stiles leaves the bathroom, quietly sneaking passed what makes him a horrible piece of crap, and goes upstairs, outside. He doesn’t give a shit if his neighbors see him naked, it’s not even close to the most inappropriate thing Stiles has done in his backyard.

He makes it into the garage without incident, only stepping on an acorn along the way.

[I’m waiting boy]

Stiles ignores the message and climbs into the backseat of his Jeep. He stretches out as best he can, leaning against the door. Hits dial.

“Hey, kiddo.”

Stiles takes in a deep breath, knowing that the next words out of his mouth are going to ruin everything.

“Make me feel good.”

He doesn’t have to be there to know Paul grins at this.

“What do you say?”

Stiles bites his lip, wrapping his free hand around his cock.

“Daddy, please. I need it.”

Paul hisses. Stiles can hear the slap of flesh over the phone.

“Good. Daddy’s gonna make you feel all better, OK?”

Stiles swallows a noise building up in his throat. This is so wrong.

“Yes.”

“But first you gotta earn it. Can you do that, kiddo?”

Stiles nods.

“How’re you gonna do it?”

“I’ll ride your dick,” Stile says in a small voice.

“You think you can earn it with just that?”

Stiles groans.

“No.”

“Do better.”

Stiles doesn’t think he can. He bites his lip, hand moving but not quickly.

“I’ll show you what a good boy I am. Ride you fast and hard. Oh, how I miss it. I want your cock inside me,” Stiles begins, tightening his fingers. “You can spank me while I do it. Punish me for being such a slut. I won’t stop.”

Paul hums this deep, pleased noise.

“You’re such a dirty little whore for daddy, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” Stiles hisses. “Dirty little whore-boy, eager for daddy’s big hot cock.”

Stiles rolls his hips, fucking into his fist. It’s not enough. He wants Paul in him. He wants to be full and used and hurt until it’s painful to go on.

“Yeah, you are. Jesus. Just a gaping hole and a mouth waiting to be filled.”

Stiles is panting now, door handle digging in to his back.

“Make me come. Feels so good when you do, daddy,” Stiles says in a dark, dangerously needy, voice.

Paul groans out a heartfelt, “Jesus, boy.”

Stiles doesn’t have to be there to know he came at that.

It’s silent over the line. Stiles continues to fuck his own fist.

Seventeen strokes.

“Next time I’m going to spank your whore ass red, pick you up, and fuck you against the wall like you love so much.”

Stiles makes some strange whimper of a noise and comes in his hand and over his belly.

“Did you just come, you little whore?”

“Yes,” Stiles pants out, shoulder screaming at him.

Ten seconds of silence.

“You know, by the time you make it here, I could be hard again. Eat you out on the table then fuck you on that half-wall…”

Stiles huffs, body shaking.

“Not tonight.”

Paul sighs.

“Alright, but if you change your mind—”

“Yeah, yeah. I know where you sleep,” Stiles says rolling his eyes. “Night, Paul.”

“Night, kiddo.”

Stiles hangs up.

He sits there for a little bit, can’t help to think he wouldn’t be in this situation if Mandeep was more like Paul; disinterested in emotional attachment and incapable of romantic feelings. Or. Maybe Stiles wouldn’t have just done that if he weren’t a horrific piece of shit.

He hits his head once on the window, still not even sure why he did it, before climbing out and heading back in.

Stiles uses a dishrag in the kitchen to clean up then goes back downstairs, into his room. Carefully, he climbs into bed and settles down as far away from Mandeep as possible.

“Mmm. Where’d you go, baby?” Mandeep asks, reaching out for Stiles with sleep-dumb arms.

He doesn’t answer, just lets Mandeep pull him in to nestle against that warm, lanky, body. Stiles kisses him instead, soft and gentle, just how Mandeep likes. Mandeep hums, petting down Stiles’ side.

“Can’t sleep?”

Stiles shakes his head, mouths at Mandeep’s strong jaw, kisses his ear, clutches at his hips.

Mandeep laughs when Stiles pushes him onto his back, groans when Stiles licks and kisses down his neck.

“Stiles,” he whispers, breathless, when Stiles takes him in hand, whines when Stiles shimmies down his body to swallow him down. “Oh, babe. Just like that…”

Stiles closes his eyes against the burning sensation radiating from his cheeks.

“So good.”

Stiles couldn’t disagree more with him. He’s a bad person and a worse boyfriend.

Mandeep deserves better; Stiles deserves worse.

Fingers grip Stiles' hair tight. Mandeep moans. 

"Th'things you do with your mouth..."

Yes, the things he does with his mouth. 

Over the sounds of panting, wet sucking noises, Mandeep's quietly shaking voice, Stiles' eyes water, a brine for his own brilliant damnation.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title summary is lyrics from Undisclosed Desires by Muse. 
> 
>  
> 
> Gird up, folks. It's about to get bumpy.


	18. Lady of the Flowers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Your bedmate  
> Pulls quarters from behind your ear, one  
> For each hour you've spent together. When he stops  
> There's fifty cents sliding into the sheets and his tongue  
> Covering the pink cauliflower of your nipple. "Beautiful  
> Defects," he whispers into your body.
> 
> Today only two quarters protect you  
> From loneliness. It's out of your hands. The job  
> Didn't pan, checks bounce, 2 A.M. is its own  
> Worst child. This is your last magic trick.  
> "Kumquat," he whispers. Lover. Loved one.  
> And the soul begs always, _Leave me leave me_  
>  While the body says simply, _Stay/_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter goes out to Darlene for accidentally literally saying exactly what was going to happen in the chapters to come. 
> 
> On a different note: I found another MTV TW fic that starts out in a laundromat and features Stiles. It is obscenely different than mine. I really do adore the diversity and creativeness that goes in to fanfic. I'm not sure the wonderful people on here realize how much life and vividness they bring to an art made entirely in black and white. It's truly gorgeous and awe-inspiring to see the things people can do with 26 letters and some special characters.

“I don’t think we should see each other anymore.”

Mandeep stills, eyes going wide. He swallows his mouthful of scrambled eggs. Stiles looks down, poking at the avocado on his plate.

“You don’t think we should see each other,” Mandeep repeats, hollowness in his voice to match the one in Stiles’ gut. Stiles nods. “Is this… are you breaking up with me?”

Stiles shrugs, shifting a tomato chunk under a bleb of egg.

“Stiles, do you… do you not want me anymore?”

Stiles can’t help the small shake of his head at that. Mandeep sighs. Stiles can hear the frustration in his voice. He gets that a lot.

“Baby, this is not the time for twenty questions. Tell me what’s going on, please.”

Stiles licks his lips, sets down his fork. His stomach hurts and he doesn’t want to do this. He actually likes Mandeep.

“I cheated on you.”

The longest seventeen seconds since Stiles last saw the stretch of forest that permeated his childhood like an old, unsettling, friend passes.

“You—what?” Mandeep asks, voice flat, angry.

Stiles pushes his plate away, too nauseated to have the breakfast Mandeep made for him that close.

“I cheated on you,” Stiles repeats, voice oddly calm. Sometimes he wonders how he sounds so calm even when he feels like screaming.

“With who? Are you—Do you—” Mandeep leans back, rubs at the stubble on his face. “Do you love him?”

The words come out quiet; full of so much hurt that Stiles’ ears _ache._

“No.”

“ _Why?”_

Stiles shrugs, breathing deeply. Like most things, he doesn’t have an answer for that.

“How… how many times?”

“Once,” Stiles replies, for some, intangible, reason feeling like that’s a lie.

His mind supplies him with a reminder of laying in the field with Chris, watching the wind card through his hair like an well-known lover, hand clutching at Chris’ shirt, legs stretched out next to his.

Mandeep sighs a deeply unhappy noise.

“OK. I—I need to process this. I’m not—I’m not saying we’re through right now but I… we need a break.”

Stiles frowns, something fluttering strangely in his stomach.

“Mandeep—”

Mandeep shakes his head.

“I need time, Stiles. I mean,” he pauses to laugh. The sound doesn’t resemble happy. “We moved pretty fast into this whole thing anyway. I spend nearly every night with you and I know that’s freaked me out. I can’t imagine you’re dealing with it better.”

Stiles doesn’t respond, just breathes slow, circular breathes and tries not to hear whatever is there in his chest that’s trying to tell him that he’s broken, damaged, and Mandeep knows.

“So a break may be a good thing.”

Mandeep stands slowly, his uniform pristine. He stoops as he passes Stiles and kisses the top of his head.

“I’ll call you when I get myself sorted out.”

Stiles nods. His face hurts. He knows he’s never going to hear from Mandeep again. That knowledge upsets him more than he thought it would.

 

Stiles sits on the couch, Al asleep in his lap. The house is quiet, still, the dishes made from breakfast long gone cold on the table to his left. Al sneezes, wriggles so that he’s lying on his side. Every breath is difficult for him and he hasn’t been eating. That statement applies to both of them.

Stiles pets down Al’s soft fur.

“My poor baby boy,” Stiles murmurs.

Al doesn’t respond to his voice like he normally would. Stiles sighs, reaching for the syringe. It’s time for his medicine.

They’re both sick little creatures.

“Come on, honey. It tastes like piña coladas…”

Al turns his head away. They both know it’s useless.

 

Twilight diffuses the land, making everything dimly colored but sharp. Stiles shivers, crossing the lawn. It’s unusually cold for this time of year. He misses the heat, the comfort of humidity hugging his limbs. His hand knocks on the door. Stiles waits. Thirty-two seconds. It opens.

Paul grins, pulling Stiles inside. He pushes Stiles against the wall and kisses him hard, tearing open Stiles’ shirt. Stiles groans for him, tugging at Paul’s belt. His shirt doesn’t matter. Paul can tear it up all he wants. Stiles stole it from him two years ago anyway.

Paul sucks and bites his way down Stiles’ neck and Stiles tilts his head back, letting it hit the wall. Paul grabs Stiles right under his ass and lifts. Stiles laughs, nihilistic, then kisses him hard and fast. He kicks the door shut and Stiles wraps his legs around him, clutching at those broad shoulders as Paul walks. He deposits Stiles onto the kitchen table, takes off Stiles’ shoes and yanks Stiles’ pants down. Paul crowds over Stiles, nips and sucks his way up Stiles’ chest to hiss, “You shaved,” into his ear.

Stiles nods, fingers digging into the table edge. Paul breathes out his favorite blaspheme at that and grabs Stiles’ thighs, pushing them until Stiles grabs them, holds them up and apart.

“I’m gonna eat you out and fuck you sloppy for that,” he says, nipping at the taught skin over the back of Stiles’ thighs.

Paul, true to his word, gets right to work.

Stiles moans, letting his head his with a painful thunk onto the wood table at the feeling of Paul’s mouth on him, tongue fucking him.

“Ohhh fuck, daddy.”

Paul chuckles, scratching at the back of his thighs.

“You must really want it, already this responsive. You miss my dick, boy?”

Stiles nods and is rewarded with a slap to his flank, a scrape of teeth. He keens.

This is exactly what he deserves.

 

Six cigarettes in, throat sore, ass throbbing, Stiles stands on the grass just on the other side of the cement sidewalk that separates him from the window in front of him. Behind the open blinds, Chris sits, head bowed, shoulders hunched, fingers fidgeting together like a man before the alter, mind full of guilt, desiring contrition from a dead woman. His ring finger fucks into and out of his wedding band slowly, contemplatively. It reminds Stiles, in a way, of how Paul had put him on, sliding his fingers inside then out, teased him, making him beg for more.

Stiles wonders, as he flicks the cherry off his cigarette, crushes the half-smoldering butt between his index finger and thumb, if it helps; to see that promise removed and restored as if She would magically return to kiss his broken self better if he did it just the right way. It reminds Stiles of other things.

Of a child, now long gone, who used to sing Kookaburra when he walked through the woods, waiting for the verse where mom would chime in, let him know that he had found her in a clearing, a meadow, picking California poppies, twisting their stems together to make fleeting jewelry to adorn him with, to walk hand-in-hand, covered in flowers, back through the woods because it was soon time to start dinner. She never came, the flowers left, the child stopped singing.

 

In a swirl of practiced, fluid motions, terrycloth slides across the table under Stiles’ hand. The coffee shop is unusually busy today; small gaggles of people have been filtering in for hours to escape the premature fall. Crisp, cold, blustering. A group of women laugh, jostling each other as they enter. Stiles straightens slowly, his whole body sore, and heads behind the counter.

Standing at the ready to punch in their order, Stiles watches them. Mostly, they stare at the chalkboard menu. One of them is looking down at the counter where Stiles’ hand rests.

Slowly, her eyes trail up, rest at his neck, his mouth, then lock onto his eyes. There’s something in them that makes gooseflesh break out on his arms, something predatory.

Her friends start to order. They get the usuals: lattes, fraps, chai teas… Stiles punches them all in then waits, looks up at the one who’s still staring at him.

“For you, ma’am?”

She licks her aubergine lips and smiles.

“I like salty and I like sweet.”

Stiles nods, heart racing strangely.

“Go make me something good.”

“Yes,” Stiles says, doesn’t bother ringing her up with anything.

He makes her a caramel latte with sea salt on top, fingers strangely still, calm, throughout the process.

She doesn’t look at him or acknowledge him in any way when he brings it to her save to smirk, eyes locked on her friend. They stay mostly through the last hour of Stiles’ shift. When he clocks out and hands over his apron to Dracho, only she with the aubergine lips is left.

“You off now?” She calls to him from her seat across the café. Stiles nods. “Come here.”

Stiles does.

“You taken?”

Stiles shakes his head, standing a foot away. She smiles.

“Let’s step outside.”

Stiles follows her to the sweetheart table located to the side of the entrance.

“Sit.”

Stiles sits, pulling out his pack of smokes. He stills, looking up at her with the pack and lighter in hand.

“Go ahead,” she says, pulling a pack of cigarillos from her bag. Stiles lights his then hers when she leans forward.

“You’re in the scene, aren’t you?” She asks in a way that makes it more statement than question, thick white smoke purling out her mouth.

Stiles shrugs, fidgeting with his cigarette pack, pulling at the plastic wrapped around it.

“Well?”

Stiles takes a drag, holds, speaks.

“Sorta.”

She tucks her chalky lilac bangs behind her ear. He exhales.

“Those bruises: wrists, neck – I can tell you have others – the way you’re acting right now… that’s not ‘sorta,’ that’s a yes.”

Stiles bites his lip, looks down.

“I… like to be hurt.”

She nods, smiling like it’s a reward.

“Go on.”

Stiles does.

 

Her name is Sabrina.

She promises him terrible things.

 

“We’re on a break.”

Donald makes on oh sound.

“How do you mean?”

Stiles sighs, scratching his stomach through his shirt.

“I mean I cheated on him, told him, and he said he’d call me later and that we were on a break. Whatever that means.”

“Is that why those bruises have made a suspicious reappearance?”

Stiles just stares at him. Donald sighs.

“Stiles…”

 

“There’s a book at your place I’d like to borrow.”

Stiles looks up from sorting his laundry. Chris is staring at his own pile of dirty laundry, sorting the dark from the light. He’s far more efficient at it than Stiles.

“Which one?”

Chris clears his throat.

“I don’t remember what it’s called.”

Stiles’ hand stills, a blue shirt with the Florissant police logo on it gripped between his fingers.

“What—what’s it about?”

Stiles carefully sets the shirt in their dark pile.

“I’m not sure.”

Stiles huffs.

“Is it really a book that you want?”

Chris throws a white shirt onto a pile of similar white V-neck shirts.

“Yes. I forgot it’s name but I know what it looks like.”

Stiles carefully sets a pair of boxers that are not his on the dark pile, trying not to think on whom they belong to. Stiles is more a boxer-brief kind of guy.

“Come by and pick it up some time.”

Stiles resists the urge to sniff the Cardinals shirt that’s definitely not his and tosses it into their assorted colors pile.

He misses Mandeep’s weird wet dog smell.

 

“Biting?”

“Yes.”

“Light, medium, hard?”

“Yes.”

Sabrina looks up from her throne of pillows on Stiles’ bed. Her panties are lacy, royal purple, match her camie.

“Bites that draw blood?”

Stiles traces the red imprint her high heals left on her feet.

“Yellow.”

“Does that mean on occasion or not sure?”

“Occasion.”

She makes a note in her little leather moleskin journal.

“Scratching.”

Stiles is achingly hard.

“Green. All kinds.”

“To clarify: green as in everything up to but not including blood or green as in everything up to and including permanent marks?”

Stiles shivers, wants to lie down, belly to the bed, and squirm for her.

“All neon green with fucking green glitter.”

She stretches her aubergine mouth wide, reaching out her right foot to rest on Stiles’ hip. He likes the weight of it.

“Spanking,” she says, twitching her toes on her left foot. They’re lavender colored, nearly light enough to match her hair.

“Please. Often.”

“Including welting?”

Stiles nods.

“Being used as furniture.”

“Green with caution.”

“Explain.”

“Bad rotator cuff. Right shoulder.”

Sabrina is quite for nine seconds, scribbling in her journal.

“Verbal humiliation.”

Stiles takes in a deep breathe, considering.

“Green. Hint of yellow.”

She looks up at him, arching a neon purple eyebrow.

“Trigger words?”

Stiles nods.

“I need to know them,” she says quietly, as if in apology.

Stiles stares down at her perfect pedicure.

“Stiles…”

“Monster, freak, fox, dream, nightmare, anything about PTSD.”

He’s sure she’s writing them down. He’s sure she’ll ask. Everyone asks.

“Any others?”

Stiles nods.

“Werewolf, howl, some—some names.”

“Like?”

“S-Scott. Allison, Lydia, Jackson, Isaac, Aiden, Kira, Derek, Boyd, Erica—” Stiles’ voice breaks. His face hurts. Everything hurts. It’s hard to breath momentarily. He tries to put them back, put them all back in the box at the back of his mind but he can’t. He can’t ever fix them, right what he did.

“Hey, hey. It’s OK,” Sabrina says, retracting her feet and pulling them under her to kneel on the bed next to Stiles. “May I touch you?”

Stiles barely manages a nod, not sure if he deserves it. She wraps her small hands around his biceps.

“I’m going to move you now.”

Stiles’ body is tense, nearly to the point of shaking. Sabrina’s small hands pull him easily into her lap, pet his arms, his head, his back.

“We’ll table that for now. How about we work on ground rules instead for a while, hm?”

Stiles presses his face into her lap, has the strongest urge to mouth at her thighs and belly, get her to forget this whole thing. He had forgotten that this was why he’d stopped doing this shit.

She squeezes the back of his neck, lightly drags her nails down his spine. Three hundred seconds filled with nothing but silence and gentle pets.

“Better now?”

Stiles pushes and squirms until she’s back in her thrown of pillows and he’s more comfortably facedown in her lap.

“Non-kinky rule number one for me is that I refuse to be a secret. You don’t have to tell everyone what we do exactly but I will not be hidden. I don’t expect exclusivity—especially from someone who’s primarily gay—but if you do decide to date you must tell them about me and they need to consent to our relationship if we do end up being compatible. Informed _and_ consenting. No surprises.”

Stiles nods. He’ll have to tell Mandeep. See if he still wants him when he finds out. If she decides to do this with him and Mandeep decides he’s not entirely a piece of shit, that is.

 

“Hmmmm. Now, I didn’t leave this,” Paul murmurs, pushing his thumb into a hickey on Stiles’ chest. It’s a matching purple to Sabrina’s hair. “Has someone been extra naughty?”

Stiles bites his lip, looking down at Paul’s open slacks, at the cock standing at attention there.

“My Mistress did it.”

Paul’s mouth forms an O of surprise.

“Mistress? My, my… Does she know what you’re up to tonight?”

Stiles shrugs. She hadn’t said anything about fuck buddies, definitely made it clear she wasn’t into it for the lifestyle, just play, but…

“Wanna tell her?”

Paul grins, a sparkle of mischief in his eyes.

“Will you get in trouble?”

“Probably not.”

Paul tweaks Stiles’ nipple, stoops over to kiss him.

“Maybe next time, boy.”

Paul fucks him hard and long on the kitchen counter while Stiles thinks on the possibilities of Paul and Sabrina meeting, imagines what their combined minds could inflict on him.

He comes hard and loud, wondering at the possibilities. He might not survive them both but he’s long had a suicidal streak.

 

“I thought we’d go a little farther tonight. Do a little pain play, light humiliation, possibly some other things. Mostly, I want to see you crawl, scratch you a little, and see what your tolerance is at for spanking. How’d you feel about being held down or some minimal, easily escaped, bondage?”

Stiles shrugs, digging through Sabrina’s black bag of tricks. It’s mostly standard stuff: rope, sheers, first aid kit, lube, dildos, Gatorade, paddles, a crop, and, oh, a harness. He pulls it out, raising an eyebrow.

“You gonna fuck me?”

Sabrina smiles. Her lips are royal purple tonight. They match the dark accenting lace on her bra.

“It’s my standard bag but if you want me to I might be convinced to fuck you—if you’re well-behaved, that is.”

Stiles puts the harness back in the bag. She can fuck him if she wants; it’s all the same to him.

“When we’re done, there’ll be cool down and I’ve brought some snacks. Mostly grapes and other light fruit. I’ll feed them to you, treat any injuries, pet you and tell you nice things. I hope you don’t mind that for aftercare. If you need space instead that’s fine but I won’t leave until I know you’re fine.”

Stiles nods, still digging through her bag like she said he could. There’s a bunch of little packets with stuff in them.

“How does that sound, Stiles? Do you consent to my agenda for the night?”

“Yeah.”

Sabrina smiles again, pats the mattress next to her.

“Then get over here and don’t even think about walking; only men get to walk.”

Stiles’ heart stutters in his chest as he crawls from the floor up onto the bed. She kneels up when he stops, waits.

Sabrina drags her nails teasingly down his back then lightly slaps his ass. Stiles sighs, feeling better already. She kisses his ear, scratching where she just spanked.

“Stay right there, just like that. Three sets. Five a set,” she whispers into his ear.

Stiles closes his eyes, hangs his head.

She spanks him, slowly building force, changing angles, scratching over where she hit in between sets, periodically biting at his shoulder.

“Is that all it takes?” Mistress asks, reaching under him, touching him. “My… you little painslut.”

She squeezes his dick, plants a wet kiss along his spine. Stiles breathes, waiting for teeth.

“I’m going to make you feel so lovely,” she croons then drags her nails over his thighs hard enough to make him hiss.

She laughs and smacks him hard, harder than she has before. Stiles twitches, letting out noises he can’t describe. He hopes she’s not lying. He hopes he’ll feel lovely when she’s done with him.

He doubts it, though.

 

 

Later on, much later, she’ll hold him close, pet him all over, call him a treat. She’ll feed him strawberries and grapes and little chunks of bananas. She’ll kiss his red and sore skin before gently dabbing it with this cool, tingling cream that smells like rosemary and cloves, a little of mint.

He’ll fall asleep with his head on her chest, throbbing all over and aching wonderfully. She’ll say he did well but he’ll still dream about the wolves in the timbers, circling closer and closer.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I might take about twelve billion years to post the next chapter because my work is offering like thirty an hour for me to pick up some extra shifts and I'm not gonna pass that up but that's OK because the next chapter is pretty terrible and much worse to pause at than this one. 
> 
>  
> 
> Summary from A Crash of Rhinos by Paisley Rekdal. I took part of one verse then followed it with part of another so it's not, precisely, in order.


	19. Song To Say Goodbye

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a crash on the highway today.  
> Nobody's going anywhere they say.  
> Man, it could be you up there  
> So you better say your prayers  
> And take it easy on your narrow way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh sweet merciful somethings, it's the middle of the night as I'm typing this and it's been so long, peeps, sooooo long but as of this Sunday, I'll punch in my last five hours of OT for the season and then... AND THEN!!!! I'll go on vacation for like a couple days. Sad, sad, terrible vacation. 
> 
> You're all totally gonna hate me for this chapter. Not even kidding.

Stiles jerks awake, body tense. Something warm under him, a hand in his hair.

“Did you know you whimper in your sleep?” Sabrina whispers.

Stiles rolls off of her and rubs at his face with both hands. He doesn’t remember his dream except for flashes. Streaks of mauve, something cold against his skin, the taste of iron bullets.

“Yeah, well, you snore.”

She pinches him for that.

 

“There’s something that’s been bothering me,” Chris starts, eyes glued to the thin book in his hands. It’s a playbook. Samuel Beckett. Krapp’s Last Tape and Other Plays.

Stiles grunts, leaning against his desk, arms crossed, as he watches Chris sort through Stiles’ books.

“How did Mandeep know you would be at my place?”

Stiles shrugs, chest burning at the mention of Mandeep.

“I don’t know. Maybe he asked Renee.”

Chris looks up, frowning.

“Your roommate? She knows where I live.”

Stiles sniffs, thinking. She doesn’t.

“Don’t think so.”

Chris sets the book down on the coffee table trunk.

“Then how did he find you that morning? North County is a big place.”

Stiles sighs. He doesn’t want to talk about Mandeep. He’s been trying not to think about him since that morning.

“Dunno. How did you find me?”

“Luck?”

Stiles glares at him, not amused. Chris smiles this small thing like he’s trying to be cute. It makes Stiles angry.

“Right,” Stiles says slowly, trying to telegraph his disbelief. “Maybe he asked my dad.”

Chris’ eyebrows make a run for his hairline.

“Your dad knows where I live?”

Stiles sighs- again -and uncrosses his arms.

“Will you drop it? Doesn’t even matter.”

As if to make up for Stiles uncrossing his, Chris crosses _his_ arms.

“It doesn’t fit, Stiles, and you know it. He shouldn’t have known where you were.”

Stiles squints at Chris, suspicion a flower ripe for blooming in his mind.

“There’s nothing fishy about Mandeep.”

Chris nods, looking unconvinced.

“Except for appearing places you didn’t tell him you were at, searching every laundromat near your house at one in the morning to find you, and—how did you two even meet?”

Stiles shrugs.

“I was sleep walking down the highway. He was on duty. Cue romcom.”

Chris’ face does some sort of rapid slideshow of surprise, terror, anger, then slides to blank.

“He’s seen you sleep walk?” he asks in a stilted voice.

“Yeah. So?”

Chris shakes his head.

“Maybe—Maybe you shouldn’t be so trusting of him.”

Stiles screws his mouth up, eyeing Chris.

“Are you trying to break us up?”

“No?”

Chris doesn’t even sound like he believes himself. Stiles takes in a breath through his nose, lets it whistle out between his teeth.

“You’re the one who turned _me_ down…”

Chris shakes his head, stepping towards Stiles.

“This isn’t about that. You need to think about this rationally, Stiles.”

Stiles straightens, jaw tight, takes a step towards Chris.

“Are you sure? Cause you sound fucking jealous, Chris.”

Chris’ mouth pinches, nostrils flaring.

“ _I’m not jealous._ ”

Stiles closes the distance between them, stands toe to toe with Chris.

“Really? You turn me down and now this? Trying to get me to doubt Mandeep?”

Chris glares at Stiles, silent, breathing heavy.

“This is ridiculous. You had your chance. You,” Stiles pauses, jabs Chris in the chest. “Turned me down. You don’t get to act like this.”

Chris grabs Stiles’ hand hard, eyes wide.

“I’m not jealous!” he hisses, teeth clenched.

Stiles leans in, blood burning in his veins. This is stupid. This whole thing is absolutely dumb.

“What if I told you we broke up, huh? Would you still be saying this shit? Would you still be worried about some nonexistent malevolent plot for him to fuck me the way you want to?”

There’s a moment of pure stillness in which Stiles glares, jaw tight, and Chris stares, mouth open.

Then they’re kissing, hard and frantic, hands clawing at whatever they can reach. They end up on the floor somehow, Chris on top of Stiles, straddling his hips, and grinding into him. His mouth is hot and eager on Stiles, hands planted next to his head. Stiles shoves his hands up Chris’ shirt, smoothes fingers over Chris’ stomach and digs into his pecks. Chris makes this noise in the back of his throat when Stiles teethes at his bottom lip, sliding his knees farther apart and rolling his hips against Stiles. It feels wonderful, glorious, to have Chris’ mouth on his, to feel his hard cock rubbing against him.

Stiles pulls Chris’ shirt off, plants a foot flat on the floor, and rolls them. Chris makes a noise of surprise, back arching, when Stiles grinds their groins together, mouthing at Chris’ neck.

“We could have been doing this so fucking long ago,” Stiles hisses, rolling his hips, mouth buzzing from the delicious rub of beard. Chris pants in reply, clutching at Stiles’ sides. “Want to fuck you so bad my dick _hurts_ thinking about it.”

“Stiles…”

Stiles reaches down between them, unbuttons Chris’ jeans and pushes his hand inside. Chris groans, fingers digging in to Stiles’ ribs hard.

“So hot and hard. _Fuck_ , I want to taste you.”

Stiles squeezes his dick and Chris jerks, gasping.

“Fuck! Please, _Stiles._ ”

Stiles smiles and kisses him. He feels like he’s soaring, like things inside of him are trying to fly. He grabs Chris’ jeans and pulls, Chris lifting his hips to help.

Bowing down, Stiles kisses Chris’ belly, rubs his mouth into the happy trail there, delighted. Stiles scrunches himself down farther, crouched now over Chris. He’s hard in his jeans but that’s secondary. He needs to taste, to kiss, to touch, to lick Chris all over like he’s a child claiming the best cookie on the tray.

Stiles licks across Chris’ hip, over the divot, along the definition of his stomach while Chris squirms under him, fingers digging in to Stiles’ back now. When he finally takes that cock in his mouth, Chris sighs like he’s the one who’s found absolution, pets Stiles’ head with shaky fingers. Stiles works him slow with hands and mouth, face burning and chest aching.

He readjusts briefly, folding his legs under him between Chris’ spread legs, to get a better angle then slides his mouth along that glorious dick, down and out, following skin until he’s sucking a bruise where thigh meets groin.

“Ohh, shit. Stiles,” Chris whines, voice breathy. Stiles licks and mouths at his balls in reply, hand still working him over. “I’m not going to—it’s been—”

Something clenches hard in Stiles’ stomach like a dreaded realization. Stiles can’t have be the first person since… can he? No. _No._

Stiles sucks hard at the head of Chris’ cock tongue flat and pressing against that leaky head. Chris’ hips twitch and Stiles takes that as invitation to swallow him whole, sliding his hands over Chris’ taught and jerky stomach. He fists Stiles’ hair, making a small hurt noise, and comes, body squirming under Stiles’ care.

Stiles pulls off, letting come and spit run out of his mouth and onto Chris. He licks his lips then kisses and laps at Chris’ spent cock, slowly covering it until it’s shiny and wet. He likes the sight of that, he realizes as he sits back to obverse his work, he likes Chris splayed out and panting, messy.

A tiny intrigued noise escapes Stiles’ mouth when Chris reaches down, rubs his slowly softening dick, then brings wet fingers to his mouth and sucks on them. In a rush of dizziness, Stiles unbuttons and unzips his jeans, fists his own cock, desperate.

Chris sits up, yanks Stiles’ shirt off, then kisses him. Stiles kisses back hard, forgoing his erection to push Chris back down onto the floor.

“So hot, Chris,” Stiles mutters, hands planted next to his head, in between mouthing at Chris’ ear and neck. Chris manages to push Stiles’ jeans down his thighs, wraps his legs around him. “Wanna make you so messy. Fuck you hard. Scream my name.”

Chris loops his arms around Stiles’ neck, rubs his wet, spent, cock against Stiles’ hard one, groaning.

Stiles levers himself up a bit, pushing with his knees until Chris is bent, lifts with his hands so he can rub his cock against that firm ass. Chris shudders, arms stretching out like wings, scratching at the hardwood floor.

“St-stiiiiles.”

Stiles bites his own lip, hips moving. He wants to fuck him so bad, wants to plunge his cock into Chris and fuck until Chris is hard again, until Chris comes around Stiles’ dick but—

No, not now.

Not on the floor.

Stiles sets him down, covers him with his own body, kisses him half-frantic.

“Shit, I want to fuck you so much. Make you feel so good.”

Chris nods, tightening his legs around Stiles, still rubbing himself against Stiles.

“Then _do it,_ ” Chris whispers, eyes wide, teeth bared.

Stiles shakes his head, teethes at Chris’ earlobe.

“Later.”

Stiles kisses him one last time then sits back on his heals again, stroking his dick quickly, eyes fixed on the picture Chris makes laying there on the floor, lips and cock shining, chest heaving, legs spread, a blush blooming beautifully across his chest.

“Slow down,” Chris says, getting onto his knees.

Stiles does, leaning back to plant a hand on the ground behind him. He slows down so much he might as well just be fondling himself. Chris presses a hand to Stiles’ stomach, keeps it there, fingers spread, and leans into Stiles. He kisses Stiles’ peck, lightly, hesitantly, then mouths at it as if he’s starving.

Squeezing the head of his dick, Stiles takes in a deep breath, then strokes faster as Chris’ mouth slowly, yet thoroughly, explores his chest. He kisses every bruise and scratch mark and mole that Stiles has, pets his stomach, his thighs, and sides.

“ _Chris_ ,” Stiles hisses, fingers playing with the head of his dick.

Chris smiles, kissing Stiles deep, practically fucking his mouth with that tongue. He cradles Stiles’ face in his hands so gently it hurts.

“I want to see you come.”

Stiles shudders and fucks his hand in earnest, Chris kissing him like the world might burst into light and restart because of it. The whole room seems to get brighter, filling with a soft light and there’s a fluttering sensation in his stomach as if a thousand birds are flying in ecstasy. Stile shivers, shakes, groaning, as he starts to come. Chris presses close, his soft dick rubbing against Stiles so sweetly. Stiles lets go, plants both hands on the floor behind him, and jerks his hips, rubbing himself off on Chris.

When he’s done, when the last burst of it has shaken its way out of Stiles, he collapses onto his back, Chris following him. He’s breathing so hard that Chris’ hair moves with it.

Stiles grins, wraps his arms around Chris, laughs softly to himself, feeling lighter than air. Chris feathers kisses over Stiles’ jaw and neck, pressing small smiles into his skin. Stiles squeezes Chris’ ass.

“Wasn’t so terrible, was it?”

Chris huffs and kisses Stiles, squirming under Stiles’ groping hands.

“Not as such.” 

 

Stiles is lying in bed, staring at the ceiling. Unsurprisingly, it looks the same as it did the last time he stared at it. Chris is in the shower, washing off the night before. Stiles sighs, turning on his side and pulling the blanket up to his ear. He closes his eyes, listens to the sounds of falling water. He wants to go in there, wants to dirty Chris up again. It makes him itch that Chris is washing off Stiles’ spit and come. He doesn’t know how he feels about that at all.

It doesn’t seem right, normal.

 

“Five Guys? You must have bad news,” Dad remarks as Stiles sets the bag down on the counter.

Stiles refrains from telling him that’s obvious since he drove from Florissant to Imperial just for dinner.

“Gift horse,” Stiles says instead, pointing at him mouth.

Dad shakes his head, smiling, as he picks up one of the cokes Stiles brought.

“Burgers or news first?”

Stiles takes in a deep breath, studying the grease stains on one of the bags. They’re pretty large and getting bigger. Dad reaches into the closest one and pulls out a fry. He pops it into his mouth and chews happily but Stiles can see the tightness around his eyes. Ceana paces in front of the sliding glass door, ears perked, eyes fixed on some imagined intruder on the other side of the glass.

“You know how you told me not to ‘do’ Chris Argent?”

Dad swallows, a sour look on his face, then takes a long draw on his coke.

“I honestly can’t say I’m surprised you didn’t listen.”

Stiles smiles. He’s sure it looks as uncomfortable as it feels.

 

The sky is darker out here at night than in North County, pitch with small pinpricks of light peeping through. Stiles sits on the roof, having climbed out his old bedroom window to curl up under the darkness. It’s a false moon tonight but even that doesn’t light up the hills and surrounding trees. Ceana runs free in the backyard, sprinting along the chain link border between lawn and woods, agitated. Stiles is on his fifth cigarette, missing the sounds of jet engines taking off periodically near his own house. He never liked the Jeffco area; too much like the preserves of Beacon Hills for comfort.

His phone rings, cutting through the sounds of nightlife. Ceana begins to bark.

“Yeah.”

“Hey, Stiles.”

Stiles takes a drag of his cigarette, lets it out slowly in the direction of a mosquito.

“Mandeep.”

Ceana continues to bark, trotting back and forth under Stiles.

“I, uh, stopped by your house but you weren’t there.”

“At my dad’s.”

“Oh. Do you—can we meet up tomorrow then? I want to talk to you.”

Stiles crushes his cigarette into the rooftop, stubbing it out. He considers telling Mandeep like this, now, over the phone. Considers telling him that he’s with someone else now and that Stiles wants him more- so much more- but… taking in to account the shit he’s put him through, that doesn’t seem fair. Stiles at least owes it to him to say it to his face.

“Stiles?”

“OK.”

Ceana’s barking lessens into intermittent yaps and huffs, still pacing under Stiles.

“How about… Kaldi’s? That’s, like, a halfway point.”

Stiles bites his lip, unsure about the public location but there’s a park across the way where it could be a little quieter. Stiles likes Kaldi’s though. It’s the only decent place in Saint Louis to serve a good sidecar and he enjoys watching the trains go by the Amtrak station there.

“Sculpture Park?”

“Ooooh. I haven’t been there in years. I love the infinity hill thing where it goes up and down, you know?”

Stiles doesn’t answer, just lights another cigarette. The crickets are loud tonight, high pitched and frenzied.

“But I bet you’re more that funky metal tree guy,” Mandeep continues, a smile in his voice.

Stiles does not answer, watching smoke drift from his hand instead. Mandeep sighs.

“Alright. I see I’ve exhausted your spoken word quota of the day. See you there at one.”

“Kay.”

“See ya!”

Mandeep hangs up. Stiles sets his phone down and lays back, wondering what Chris is doing right now. Probably sleeping. Aside from laundry nights, he seems to keep pretty regular hours unlike Stiles.

 

At noon, Stiles discovers that his Jeep won’t start. His dad has already left for work and Stiles cannot find where the issue is nor does he have the tools to fix it here. He calls Mandeep to let him know and Mandeep volunteers to come to him to talk. He suggests giving Stiles a ride home and back but Stiles declines that, sure that Mandeep won’t feel like taxiing Stiles across that much space just for tools once he tells him what’s going on.

Stiles waits for him on the front porch, shirt sticking to his skin in the humidity of late summer. Ceana is barking in the backyard, a noise of mindless joy, a reminder of existence. When Mandeep’s truck comes into view behind the trees, Stiles’ shoulders tense.

Mandeep parks in the driveway but doesn’t pull all the way up. Most people don’t; it’s a long driveway. Stiles takes a drag of his cigarette, watching Mandeep climb out and walk across the lawn towards him, skirting around the trees at the edge. He smiles. Stiles is going to break his heart today. Again.

“Hey, um… so this is where your dad lives,” Mandeep says, grinning as his hair falls over his face. Stiles nods, fidgeting with his cigarette until ash falls off and onto the ground at his feet.

Mandeep takes a seat on the porch step next to Stiles, rubbing his palms on his thighs.

“I was thinking about, about everything really, about how we met and the things you said you liked and then I thought about how I felt when—”

“Mandeep,” Stiles cuts in because he doesn’t like where this is going, what Mandeep seems to be doing. Stiles sighs and drops his cigarette, crushes it underfoot. He wonders briefly why everyone wants to twist themselves into knots just to forgive him. He’s not worth their efforts. Ceana barks in a part of the fenced in backyard closest to them.

Mandeep looks at him and smiles, something soft, something hurt in his face.

“It’s the other guy, isn’t it?” Mandeep asks quietly, twisting his fingers together.

Stiles shrugs because it is and it isn’t. Chris is another guy but he’s technically not the one Stiles used to cheat on him. “It’s the guy from the Laundromat, right? What’s his name? Carl, no. Chris.”

Stiles takes in a shaky breath and looks out at his dad’s front lawn, the slope of the hills and how the neighbor’s driveway cuts through it, bisecting the grass with blacktop. Mandeep touches his fingers to Stiles’ knee.

“Hey, it’s OK. I should have,” Mandeep pauses to lick his beautiful lips. “I should have known that you’d be hard to keep.”

Stiles shakes his head. He can’t agree. He just can’t. Mandeep should have been enough. It was Stiles’ fault for cheating, his own inability to not fuck everything up.

“Come on, let me give you a ride home.”

“You—”

Mandeep shakes his head.

“Let me at least do this for you.”

Stiles breathes in, fingers clenched around nothing.

“OK.”

Mandeep stands, unnecessarily helps Stiles up, and heads to his truck. Stiles grabs his messenger bag and follows. When hand touches handle, the sky rumbles, prophesying a later storm. Stiles shivers in the heat of the day and climbs into the truck.

As Mandeep drives, Stiles leans against the window, watching the trees pass every once in a while interrupted by small box-shaped houses. He doesn’t know what to say to the man next to him, doesn’t know if he truly wants to talk, is only aware of the need to.

It’s when they’re crossing over a large river— possibly the Meramec but it could be the Missouri river (Stiles can never remember which is which)— that it happens.

Something furred, something big, a dog. No. A wolf streaks in front of the truck.

“Fuck!” Mandeep shouts, swerving to the right to avoid it.

Except to the right is the half wall for the bridge.

Stiles flails, braces his arms on the dash as they hit it, crunch through it.

Mandeep screams over the sounds of tearing metal.

Stiles’ heart races then settles, a strange calmness settling over him when his seatbelt locks across his chest, head whipping with the force of it.

They’re airborne for an eternity, looking out over the stillness of a river older than the people who live off of it.

Stiles has time to think, “This is how I die,” as the truck arcs down, turning their view into nothing but murky waters.

He hopes his dad will forgive him.

 

 

Impact.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Summary comes from Hurray For The Riff Raff's Crash On the Highway.
> 
> I think it goes well with the end to this chapter. 
> 
>  
> 
> Also Sabrina: The Twenty-Something Sadist sounds like an awesome show. I'd watch the shit out of it. 
> 
> Bonus because of the delay: Next chapter's summary. Also a Hurray For the Riff Raff song. I'm really loving this band. This song right below is so beautiful. I think it's the perf theme song for Chris. 
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> _He's gonna shoot me down, put my body in the river_  
>  _Cover me up with the leaves of September_  
>  _Like an old sad song, you heard it all before_  
>  _The appeal's gone but I'm settling the score._
> 
>  
> 
>  _Oh, and tell me what's a man with a rifle in his hand_  
>  _Gonna do for a world that's just dying slow?_  
>  _Tell me what's a man with a rifle in his hand_  
>  _Gonna do for his daughter when it's her turn to go?_  
>   
> 
> I'll see you peeps next week maybe.
> 
>  
> 
> *******oh yeah. I forgot to ask. I was thinking of taking you all on a virtual tour of the places in Saint Louis that this takes place. Would anyone want that? Cause I've literally not made up a single place and I thought it might be cool to see a couple of the places that Stiles has been. ******


	20. You Don't Care About Us

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He's gonna shoot me down, put my body in the river  
> Cover me up with the leaves of September  
> Like an old sad song, you heard it all before  
> The appeal's gone but I'm settling the score.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I finally managed to do that sad sojourn to the man who married my mother and was with her when she died. That. That was... an experience, to say the least. I now have a ziplock baggie with some of my mom in it and he let me keep the tag from her cremation. Hello, new necklace. He's a kind old man. I could barely understand him when he talked but he said a lot about mom. He really, truly loved her. I'm glad she knew him before she died. He can't read, he can't write and he lives in this tiny house with three tiny dogs in a shitty tiny town.  
> What a strange experience. 
> 
> Anyway, here's another bit.

Water explodes around the truck’s cabin like a log ride, loud and jolting. Stiles’ body jerks with the momentum as the windshield cracks. There’s a roaring in his ears and he can hear Mandeep scream cut off as his seatbelt cuts into his chest. Stiles’ ribs pick up the screaming as they compress from his own belt. The truck lurches again.

Gasping, Stiles undoes his seatbelt, watching the water level rise up over the windows. He turns to Mandeep.

Mandeep is clawing at the belt, choking and sputtering, eyes wide.

“Mandeep,” Stiles says, unsure if he’s shouting. He reaches out, touches Mandeep’s arm. Mandeep whines, fingers scratching his own skin around where the seatbelt digs in. He doesn’t answer. “Mandeep!”

Mandeep flinches, turning his large eyes on Stiles.

“You need to sit back,” Stiles tries for calm, knows he doesn’t make it.

“We’re gonna die. Oh gods, I’m gonna—” Mandeep shrieks, jerking against the belt. The water is rising quickly now, more than halfway up the window.

“No!” Stiles shouts, voice unbending metal. “We’re not. Listen to me; can you do that, baby? Just do as I say.”

Mandeep stills, fingers clutching at the belt, and nods.

“Take your seatbelt off. Then your shoes.”

Stiles gets to work untying his own shoes as quick as he can and kicks them off.

“Wha-what now? How do we—what does that—”

Mandeep is shaking, eyes so wide that in the murky and quickly darkening light they seem—more amber than brown. Stiles spares a moment, unable not to, to think, “Pathetic child,” with an iron-cold condescension.

Calmly, Stiles begins looking around the cabin for something hard.

“I want you to stay still, put your hands over your head and turn your face away from me. I’m going to break the glass and when I touch your shoulder, not before, you’re going to follow me out, OK?”

Mandeep nods. Stiles, without any other thing to use, grips his phone tight in one hand and covers his face with his free arm as best he can without losing sight of the passenger window.

“Big breath, baby,” Stiles says calmly, then rears his arm back and swings. The phone breaks when it hits the glass, slicing open Stiles’ hand. Stiles takes a deep breathe and closes his eyes.

The glass cracks, the truck cabin groans, and then explodes inward, glass and dirty water rushing in, filling the cabin like a thousand bees right into Stiles.

When the water is above his head, Stiles opens his eyes. In the near dark, Stiles reaches out, pushes his palm into Mandeep’s shoulder, then grabs the edge of the window. The car is still warm from sun under his hands as he pulls himself out of the sinking truck. He wheels around, feeling syrupy slow in the water, and looks back into the cabin. Mandeep is reaching out, stretching his arms in the dark, groping for a handhold.

Stiles takes him by the forearm, palm screaming at the effort, plants his feet as best he can on the door, and pulls. Momentarily, he is surprised, in the quiet river, that Mandeep comes so easily. “Tiny,” Stiles thinks, “Insignificant.”

As soon as Mandeep’s free, Stiles kicks off from the still sinking truck and swims through the water. His lungs burn, hand throbs, and he feels as if his face, neck, and shoulder are covered in bug bites. Stiles grins, spreads his arms, and flies towards the surface, impossibly light in his heavy jeans.

He bursts through the surface and takes in lungfulls of air, the metallic taste of river water on his tongue. Treading, he catches his breath in the brilliant afternoon light, sky dark, overcast. It feels amazing, weightless and painful and—glorious.

Mandeep surfaces next to Stiles, curly hair glued to his face like matted fur. He gasps, flailing. Stiles pushes himself away in the river water, weary of being caught by one of Mandeep’s arms.

As if he is little more than animal, Mandeep doggy paddles towards shore, Stiles to the side and easily keeping pace; he has known how to swim for as long as he could walk.

Eventually, Stiles’ feet kick earth. He plants them, walks across the river bottom, feeling strong, feeling brilliant and shining like rain on a sunny day, a grass fire at night. Luminescent.

Mandeep trips, face plants in the water. Stiles wraps powerful fingers around his arm and drags him the rest of the way onto land. Mandeep flops onto the ground, coughs, hacking for breath. Stiles sits down next to him, watches bubbles boil up where the truck continues to sink below the water’s surface.

“You—” Mandeep coughs. “You called me baby.”

Stiles turns to look at him, feeling a rush of… of something building up where his stomach should be. Mandeep is breathing hard, shirt soaked through, as he raises shaky arms to rub hair out of his face.

“You still want me,” Mandeep pants out.

The feeling in Stiles’ stomach rises like a handful of fiery flies, up and up his chest, scorches his throat and lungs. _“You still want me._ ”

Mandeep grins bright, triumphant.

Stiles vomits.

 

 _Knees against his chest, arms around his legs,_ he opens his eyes. _Where he is is bright, blindingly so, like the first fall of snow. It’s a thin covering for the dark things._

There’s a howling outside like the winds in a tornado. _Where he is does not shake with them_. He presses his hand into the cracked cover over him, exerts no effort. _It shatters, rains small sharp things like bird bones against his skin._

He smiles.

_No one can tame him._

 

The grass tickles his feet as he walks, bending to the weight of his legs. Stiles does remember getting here. He remembers sitting in a Jeffco patrol car as the nice officer drove a steady fifteen over the limit and shot Stiles strangely invested looks as he rested his head against the window, a blanket around his shoulders.

He had her drop him off at a house behind the Walgreens closest to 270, claimed to keep an extra key on the back porch, hops yards to Lindbergh, walked its length to Utz and crossed over grass, asphalt, cement with a mindless determination.

Stiles remembers getting here.

The wind bends around him. He dreams with his eyes open, an ancient forest transposed over reality. He knows it’s him knocking on the door. His feet curl against the porch. Maybe he understands now, in a vague and slippery way, what’s happening.

The door before him opens, letting out soft light into the dusk of Stiles’ day.

“Stiles, what—”

Stiles pushes his way in, puts his mouth on Chris’, and shuts the door. His hands touch Chris’ sides, slide over his delicate ribs.

Alive.

Stiles is alive and awake.

Chris is here.

Stiles is here.

“ _What happened to you?_ ”

Stiles shakes his head, sweeps Chris up in his arms like a bride. Chris squawks, wraps arms around Stiles’ neck.

“Stiles!” he laughs out as Stiles carries him into the bedroom.

Stiles likes this. He likes how his shoulders strain under Chris’ weight, how stiff and awkward he is in Stiles’ arms.

Stiles sets him down carefully, gently, onto the bed. The cut on his palm has opened up but Stiles doesn’t care. It feels right, perfect, when he pulls off Chris’ shirt, that his blood is staining the material. He presses his mouth to the soft belly exposed then, lips wide, wet, still tasting of river water.

“Stiles,” Chris says in a hesitant, quiet, voice. “Can you hear me?”

Chris props himself up, touches cold fingers to Stiles’ cheek. Stiles sighs, leans in to the touch. He’s felt over-warm since impact. Like he’s just come awake after a long and fitful rest, still sleep-hot and jittery to start a new day.

“Yes.”

Chris lets out a breath, body losing a tension Stiles hasn’t noticed was there.

“What happened to you?”

Stiles grins, imagining his teeth to be pointed shards of bone limbed by black flesh like the creatures in the fairy tales Mom used to read to him.

“I am woke,” Stiles responds, clear as the church bell that sounds on the hour near his house. “I am woke and I see the threads.”

Chris scoots back slowly, carefully, when Stiles looks up at him.

“Your eyes…”

Stiles touches his palm to Chris’ torso, over his liver, drags it down, thousands of flighty electric sparks racing from his fingertips up his arm, across his shoulder, to his ear. His blood looks so right where it is, a crust for an anchor, his life tethered to Chris’ shell of skin.

“Artemis’ child with the moonlight dagger,” Stiles mutters, lurches, slots his mouth over Chris’.

Falling back onto the bed, Chris grunts, kissing back syrup-slow. Stiles puts his hand on him, slides it across his cock until Chris is hard, slick with Stiles, until his mouth releases tiny little noises for Stiles to eat.

Stiles licks along Chris’ jaw line, reveling in the scratch of facial hair, whispers, “Can I possess you? Give me your body, your heart, and I will give you my life.”

He slips his tongue into Chris’ ear to taste his words there, their bitter tang. Chris shudders, clutches at Stiles’ back, hisses out, “Yes. Yes. I give it.”

Stiles grins, moves his mouth down the column of Chris’ neck and gets to work covering Chris in spit and sweat and come and blood.

Slowly, he works him open with fingers, mouth, tongue, coats him from knee to neck in spit, stretching and stretching him to make room for Stiles, takes him apart with digits pressing and tongue lapping.

He tastes his trembling, caresses the jerk of his stomach, milks sweet, breathless whimpers and hedonistic shouts from his lungs. Stiles takes him apart twice over, licks and touches each piece with a gentle thoroughness, leaving traces of himself everywhere he can. And then, when he’s satisfied with the open and pleading looks, when fresh come mixes with old across that coruscating skin, he slides himself inside of him, fills him up as best he can.

With Chris’ legs wrapped around Stiles’ hips and a burbling brook of glorious pleas and pleased noises crossing the bridge of Stiles’ tongue from Chris’ mouth into Stiles, he pushes all those pieces back together. Gentle, slow, careful, he fucks him back together with long and easy strokes.

He does this until Chris is clutching at Stiles’ back, mouth letting loose these fragile little ohs, until their sweat mingles and mixes on their skin, until Chris says, in a quiet, small, voice, “Stiles, please.”

Then he pushes up, pulling at Chris, slides back, moving until Chris is over him, split wide around Stiles’ intrusion into him. Stiles strains up into him, punching wails out of Chris. The man—his man—Stiles’ man, plants his hands on Stiles’ chest and rides him with shaking limbs of desperation, a heavenly chorus screaming out of his mouth.

Stiles can feel it, feel the moment Chris comes together, shudders and shakes, shouts for Stiles, spilling himself over Stiles’ skin. Stiles keens at this, fingers digging into strong, narrow, hips, and gives the last, the rest of himself to the beautiful human now half collapsed on top of him.

They lay there, so twined together that Stiles doesn’t know if it’s his hand or Chris’ that guides them up the bed, pulls the blankets down and positions them together across their soft throne.

Stiles falls asleep like that, in the nest of their limbs, breathe moving the hair in front of his mouth, eyes closed to the soft glow in the room.

 

He dreams only of laughing so fiercely that it drowns out the wolves in the timbers. _His_ timbers.

 

He wakes to the patter of water, distant, but close. The truck. He’s going to suffocate. Or drown. If the glass doesn’t hold. Either way, his last sensation will be the ache in his lungs as the world whites out and darkens for the last time.

Stiles gasps, struggling at the belt across his chest, attempting to claw free from his confines, to escape a watery grave. Jerks upright, panting, in bed. Not his. Chris’. He sits a moment, dragging wet breathes over his lips until he’s dizzyingly delirious on oxygen. Stiles takes a moment to grin at the sparse furnishings of Chris’ room, caress with wide eyes the crossbow hanging from the wall across from him, the painting on the wall next to the bathroom door of wolfsbane that the early false dawn light turns luminescent.

Something buzzes on the side table. Stiles turns to it. Chris’ phone. Stiles leans over, picks it up. It’s Chris’ bank. A balance update. Four-thousand, six-hundred, twenty-three dollars and forty-eight cents available. Damn.

Stiles bites his lip, fingers sliding across the screen. His breath moves across his fingers like a light, humid, breeze.

Four-digit passcode. Stiles breathes in, wondering. He taps in four digits. Incorrect. He tries it backwards. The homescreen slides into view. Of course. Of course. It’s Allison’s birthday.

Stiles closes his eyes, breathes deep and tries not to let her come back to him, tries not to think on how _much_ Chris has lost. Wife, father, sister, daughter, and who knows what else. Stiles resists the brine of guilt that comes to his eyes, attempts to take him over. He has to do this. For Chris, for Allison, and… for himself.

He pulls up the keypad, types in the number he has memorized and holds Chris’ phone to his ear.

It rings five times.

In the silence between the rings, Stiles listens to the sounds of the shower running, hoping Chris stays there until Stiles is done.

“Hello?”

“Hey.”

“Stiles! Ho—Did you get a new phone already? Are you OK? You seemed kinda out of it after—after.”

Stiles smiles, licks his Chris-flavored lips.

“You know, you almost had me.”

It’s silent for four seconds.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, baby,” Mandeep says, his tone not quite correct. Stiles huffs, runs his fingers over three little bruises on his hip, the ghost of Chris’ fingers throbbing gently under his touch.

“The crash was just a little too perfectly timed.”

“What? Stiles, you’re not making sense…”

Stiles could laugh if he didn’t know better. Instead, he uses two fingers to scratch at the dried come on his stomach.

“There’s just one thing you did wrong.”

“What’d I do wrong? You’re confusing me here.”

Stiles nearly believes his nonplussed tone. Nearly. He sighs.

“I know a werewolf when I see it, _baby_.”

Mandeep is silent. Stiles supposes he’s meant to interpret that as being freaked out or more confusion. He has zero fucks left to give for that.

“Stiles… have you been—” Mandeep sighs. “Screw it. You know, I had wanted you to come to us. I wanted this to be your choice.”

Stiles snorts.  

“Makes you feel better, you almost got your way.”

“No. No, it doesn’t. I suppose I’ll be seeing you soon.”

“Probably.”

Stiles hangs up. He sits there in silence, hand heavy as he lowers the phone back onto the nightstand, heart racing. He wants a smoke so bad, wants the buzz of energy and the dizziness of a cigarette.

The shower continues to run.

Stiles breathes in sharp, fast, picks up Chris’ phone again. He saves Mandeep’s number to it, puts as much information as he has into the contact profile then puts in a few other numbers, as many as he can remember, that might be useful should he… should something happen.

He sets Chris’ phone back on the table. It clanks down onto the wood with a strange finality.

Stiles is up and walking into the bathroom on instinct. He needs to see—to touch Chris. He feels like if he doesn’t he might die.

Chris makes a surprised noise when Stiles slides the shower door open, dropping his bottle of body wash. Calmly, Stiles shuts the shower door behind him, insinuates himself into the spray of water.

“You knew, didn’t you?” Stiles asks quietly, voice rough, staring into Chris’ clear eyes.

For a moment, Stiles believes if he just… slid to the left, they’d be back in that forest. He pushes that and the wonder at what he meant by _back_ in the forest away when Chris opens his mouth, jaw so tight that the tendons in his neck jump.

“I… Yes,” Chris says, nods. “I did.”

Stiles takes in a deep breath, closes his eyes. He’s not surprised. Not really; it makes sense for Chris to have figured it out.

When he opens his eyes, Chris looks scared, nervous. With his right hand, Stiles cups Chris’ jaw, pressing his left into Chris’ hip.

“Of course you did,” Stiles whispers. “Of course. Of course.”

He kisses him gently, sweetly. Chris is slow to respond, hesitantly moves his lips against Stiles like it’s a question, fingers skittish as they make contact with Stiles’ sides. The warm shower water slides over the knicks across Stiles’ neck, shoulders, face, and arm, heating the scabs until malleable. They sting in protest but he ignores this.

Instead, Stiles kneels, clasps his hands together around Chris’ cock, interlocking fingers like a prayer, like a plea to the impermanence of humanity, and wraps his lips around the head of Chris’ cock, grateful, so very grateful, as he suckles gently then with more urgency when Chris grabs Stiles’ hair with one hand.

Chris moans and it echoes in their small space over the sounds of running water, over the thunder of Stiles’ heart.

“Stiles,” Chris croaks, whispers, like it’s a call for absolution. Stiles honestly doesn’t think there’s anything he can forgive. Whether that means Chris did no wrong or that Stiles can’t bring him the forgiveness he seeks, Stiles doesn’t know. “Oh—Oh, _Darling._ ”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HOLY FUCKING SHIT!!!  
> So, one of my old people friends just called me up today and he was like, "Yo, you and that other one meet me at this Hardee's in South City," and I was like, "Ummmm, OK. I don't like Hardee's but w/e, I like you. You're old and nice and we both love your grandchild so it's cool." (His grandchild is The Roommate).  
> And we get there and he's like, "Get in my car, I wanna show you two something," and he takes us to this two story house built in like nineteen-oh-fuck-it's-old and he's like, "I fully refurbed this with a buddy of mine, do you two want it? You can pay whatever you want and I'll put it in your name and I can, like, make you some furniture n stuff. Grandma made chicken and dumplings so be at my place at like six. Kthxbai!" 
> 
> AND THAT'S HOW ME AND THE ROOMMATE BOUGHT A FULLY UPDATED TWO STORY HOUSE IN SOUTH CITY FOR TWO HUNDRED A MONTH. I'M FUCKIng SPazZing OUT SO bad. Holy shit, we own a home. Us. We. WE Got a house!!!!!! I screamed. Like legit. Once he was gone but still. Fucking amazeballs.  
> And that's why I didn't post this this weekend like I planned. BecAUSE I GOT A HOUSSSSEEEEEEE.
> 
>  
> 
> *******oh yeah. I forgot to ask. I was thinking of taking you all on a virtual tour of the places in Saint Louis that this takes place. Would anyone want that? Cause I've literally not made up a single place and I thought it might be cool to see a couple of the places that Stiles has been. ******


	21. Black-Eyed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grief turns out to be a place none of us know until we reach it. We anticipate (we know) that someone close to us could die, but we do not look beyond the few days or weeks that immediately follow such an imagined death. We misconstrue the nature of even those few days or weeks. We might expect if the death is sudden to feel shock. We do not expect the shock to be obliterative, dislocating to both body and mind. We might expect that we will be prostrate, inconsolable, crazy with loss. We do not expect to be literally crazy,

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So moving into my own house took a metric fuckton of my time away. Mostly done now. Ish.  
> Anyway. That Saint Louis tour? It's gonna take more than just a day but some of it is already on my tumblr. http://monstertesk.tumblr.com/tagged/monstertesks-monsternerd-tour-2k15 . I will periodically be adding more videos to it but Saint Louis is not a small place and it'll probably take some time. I'll try and let you know when/if I add more but you can check it yourself too.  
> Also The Roommate is on one of them. He wants me to apologize for sounding so disgruntled in the videos. When I asked him if I sounded angrier than usual his response was, "Well... no but they don't know that!" So I'm not going to do that. Right now it's mostly Tower Grove Park which I know very little about but live very close to.  
> I'll add on more places and little facts or stories about them as I come across them.

Head down, Stiles pokes at the cherry in his milkshake, slowly forcing the red fruit into the whipping. There’s a double burger with guacamole in front of him that he’s ignoring and his dad perched on a stool at the other side of the kitchen island. Stiles’ hands are black, engine grease smudged from nail to elbow.

“Dad.”

“Son,” Dad says then licks some whipping off the top of his milkshake.

“What was mom?”

Dad stills, eyes going wide, mouth opening then closing. He sets his shake down and clears his throat.

“She said you might ask that. I thought…” Dad smiles, an unhappy, tight thing of an expression taking over his face. “She never said—told me but… she left something for you. Just in case.”

Dad stands, stool screeching across the floor.

Stiles’ heart pings strangely. He pushes his shake away, nods, breathes.

“I’ll go get it.”

 

It’s an old leather journal, soft, brown, obviously hand-bound. On the cover is a tree—or possibly a lit torch—branded into the skin. Stiles traces it, music playing quietly in his ears as his laundry gets wet in his usual washing machine. He has his legs stretched out on the bench and his heart hammering somewhere near his navel. Stiles opens it slowly, afraid that it might crumble into ash at his touch.

The pages are pulped, uneven, make him wonder if the whole thing is made by hand.

_“Hello my baby boy. I saw you for the first time today. Tiny little green bean on a screen. My hope is that I’ll be the one to give you this but I don’t know how l have here. Our time, my joy, is short in these human bodies._

_At this moment, I’m sitting in the field I met your father at. It is this, my light, I wish to tell you of. The story of the man who charmed the —”_

Something taps Stiles’ shin. He jerks, gasping, looks up.

Chris smiles, waves with the book in his hand. Stiles moves his legs to make room for Chris and turns his music down using the button on the headphone cord.

“You’re late,” Stiles comments, stretching his legs out over Chris.

“I’m not late, I’m Chris.”

Stiles glares, digs the heal of his shoe into Chris’ thigh for that.

Chris just grins, wrapping his right hand around Stiles’ ankle and opens his book up with his left.

Stiles turns his music up a degree or two and focuses his eyes back to his mom’s journal.

_“It’s not a pretty story, no. But it is just as beautiful as it is human…”_

 

They head over to Stiles’ dad’s place when the laundry is dry, Stiles’ bat between his knees and Chris’ colt holstered under his arm, their belongings mixed together in the trunk of the SUV and Stiles’ rat cage strapped in to the back driver’s side seat.

Stiles holds tight to Chris’ hand when they drive over the bridge, his eyes fixed on the traffic cones and temporary wall MODOT put up after the—fall.

When they get there, Stiles’ dad is gone, probably has a shift. Chris backs into the driveway, head out the window, until he’s three feet from the garage door, next to Stiles’ Jeep.

With Al in the pocket of his hoodie, Stiles checks the perimeter, making sure the “decorative” mountain ash logs have not been moved. Chris is leaning against the hood of his SUV, eyes on Stiles, when he completes the circuit.

“All good?”

Stiles nods.

“Come,” he says, walks over to the small stripe of rocks where Dad keeps what he refers to as “The Speed Bump;” a log of mountain ash Stiles sanded flat on the bottom and curved on the top. Chris smiles this sly thing.

“Maybe later.”

Stiles gives him a flat look and waits. Chris walks over, still smiling softly. They get the speed bump in place across the end of the driveway together.

“Get on the inside.”

“Yessir.”

Stiles ignores him and kneels on the inside of the circle, places his hands on the speed bump, closes his eyes, and thinks.

He thinks of Scott’s hands, moving through the dust as he explains to Derek the reasoning behind his tattoo, he thinks of that solid black line circling around his arm, the indelibility of it; its permanence and wholeness. Then he imagines the log below him as the same, an impenetrable ash line, solid, corporeal. In his mind’s eye, he sees the log defuse into char, into ash, and stretch, connecting to the next. The image gets bigger, the new log charring, turning to black, and forming with the next.

Stiles keeps this up, taking apart and reforming each log in his mind’s eye until he gets to the last, the one directly to his left. From char to ash to something black like ink, shiny. Then he connects it to the one under his hand, imagines, now, that it’s one big loop, a great boundary not to be crossed, thinks on the first sapling to show on burnt land, strong, new, as it grows, gains life, becomes unfellable.

This, he pushes into the logs, his idea, his belief, that they are strong, unbreakable, and alive, that they’ll whisper in the wind of anything coming, touching them, to him.

Stiles breathes out, slowly stands, his hands still stretched out towards the border. He opens his eyes.

A solid black trunk stretches away from him, roots sprung from it and digging into the earth. It breathes, whispers to him that there’s a man within and another creature (Ceana).

_“Holy shit.”_

Stiles jerks, breath shuddering between his now shaky lips at the sudden reinstallation of reality.

He sways, stumbles, knees giving out.

Strong arms catch him.

Stiles wheezes.

“Come on, let me get you inside.”

Stiles nods, wraps his arms around Chris, and lets him guide Stiles.

There’s a squirrel sniffing at the border. It wants to know if it should let it pass. Stiles allows this.

“Do you have the key?”

Stiles nods, sure if he opened his mouth the only noise that would leave is an inarticulate burble.

“Are they in your pocket?”

Stiles slows, a wave of vertigo rushing through him. Everything turns a vibrant green like an over exposed photo of foliage. He keels over, bending at the waist.

Chris’ arms move, sliding over Stiles’ chest, hands hooking into his armpits.

“Woah there. You gonna throw up?”

Stiles doesn’t respond, just breathes in his nose, out his mouth until the sensation settles. Chris runs a hand over Stiles’ back and Stiles waits for the world to stop heaving in and out of focus. Some insects have found the border. They’re very curious little things.

The sensation doesn’t pass. Stiles straightens anyway.

“Good?”

Stiles shrugs. He has very little idea of what he is. The world is exploding in gloriously nauseating ways. Stiles doesn’t think it will ever end, isn’t sure he wants it to.

A hand dives into Stiles’ pocket, fishes around. Stiles holds his breath, if it went just an inch or so more to the right, it would _touch_ him. Then the hand is gone and Chris is unlocking the front door. He helps Stiles inside while Stiles is busy reeling from it all.

The sitting room is right inside the door and that’s where Stiles ends up, sitting like a limp doll on the edge of the couch.

“Do you need anything? Water?”

Stiles breathes. Everything is starlight, a world of distant, intense, infernos just beyond Stiles’ grasp. It’s pinpricks of brilliance in a vast reach of pitch. Beautiful. Beautiful. Everything is bright. And beautiful.

It hurts.

Chris cups Stiles’ face, inspiring a multitude of feathered things under Stiles’ skin to skip and flutter in interest.

“Stiles, are— _Your eyes._ Are you in there?”

They’re sitting on a stump. _They’re sitting on a couch._ The wing shakes the trees not far away. _The wind shakes the trees outside._ It’s a place that’s not a place. It’s a dream that’s not a dream. It’s reality that’s not real.

 

 

Howling, howling, howling, and _laughter._

 

 

Arms spread, flying over ground, giving chase.

 

 

Glory, glory, glory to the trees for they are many and she is one of them.

 

 

They whisper _things_ to him.

 

 

Stiles nods, runs his hands over his legs, palms damp.

“Y-yeah. Just… just gimme…”

There’s a deer at the border. Al is still in his pocket. Stiles reaches in with slow, shaky, hands and pulls him out.

Chris takes Al’s tiny body and stands.

“I’ll get everything in and set up. You just rest.”

Ceana is running along the fence, a warm, protective presence, alert and strong in her old age.

Stiles looks out the window in front of him, at the brilliantly alive trees shifting in the breeze like ocean waves. He moves with them, sways, watches until his breath is synchronized with the rustle of leaves and the bend of branches.

Times passes like a river, a continuously babbling brook of small events, colors, and textures. Stiles has no idea how long he sits there before it all becomes a strangely vibrant white noise but he does know that shortly after, Chris returns to him.

“Come on,” he says, gripping Stiles’ bicep. “Let’s get you to bed.”

Stiles follows his lead upstairs and into his old room while wondering what that would feel like—fucking like this. He thinks, perhaps, it might be too many good sensations at once; an overload of euphoria he’s almost willing to try.

Chris helps Stiles sit on the edge of his bed and goes to move away. Stiles’ fingers, uncoordinated but possibly stronger than he thinks, grab at Chris’ hips, pull until Chris is between his knees.

“I got to finish unpacking, Stiles.”

Stiles shakes his head then presses it into Chris’ stomach, closes his eyes, and breaths, trying to focus only on Chris.

“It can wait,” Stiles says roughly, trying to shove down the wave of nausea that comes over him.

Chris runs fingers through Stiles’ hair, gently. Oh, so, very gently.

“OK.”

Stiles grips Chris’ sides, fisting his shirt, and kisses the stomach in front of him.

“Stiles…”

He doesn’t respond to Chris’ warning tone. Instead opting to pull and squirm until they’re both lying on the bed, Chris on top of Stiles, their legs in some strange tangle together.

Chris huffs, moving around until his head is tucked into Stiles’ neck.

“Are you alright?” Chris asks, breath puffing against Stiles’ skin. There’s a woodchuck skirting around the border.

“Rarely,” Stiles responds in a small voice and closes his eyes.

 

 

It’s dusk now and Stiles is on the roof, having climbed out his bedroom window. Chris might still be asleep. He’s got a cigarette between his fingers and the motion of leaves in the wind in his heart.

He doesn’t know what to do with this—with any of this. What he may or may not be, with what’s going on with Mandeep, with… Chris.

So many questions and no answers.

There’s a scuffling noise then feet crunching across the shingles.

Chris sits down next to Stiles. Nine seconds of silence.

“We need to figure out a plan.”

Stiles nods, draws his knees up to his chest, and slides sideways until he’s leaning against Chris.

“I know.”

Chris’ arm wraps around Stiles, his fingers curling into his hair. Stiles closes his eyes, breathes.

“I need to know everything, Stiles.”

Stiles takes a drag on his cigarette, exhales long and silent.

“I know.”

“I’m sorry; it can’t wait.”

Stiles nods, throws his cigarette to the side, and turns, pushing Chris until he’s on his back. Stiles kisses him, hovering over his body.

“Stiles…” Chris warns.

“ _I know,_ ” Stiles hisses, kisses Chris’ jaw, and sits back on his heals.

Chris sits up too and Stiles turns, settling with his back against Chris’ chest. Stiles looks down at the hands locked across him like a seatbelt and sighs.

“It’s OK, Stiles,” Chris says softly, kissing the back of Stiles’ head.

“No,” Stiles tells him, just as softly. “It’s not.”

“Then it will be.”

Stiles huffs. He doubts that with every inhuman fiber of his questionable being.

“I did it on purpose.”

Chris makes a questioning hum. The trees still, the wind stops. It’s as if everything is waiting on bated breath for Stiles to finally say it out loud, to admit it.

“I only go after them if I can tell they’re not human.”

Chris is silent, is still as the trees.

“It was so easy to tell with him. I thought—I _thought_ I was just that good at telling… maybe, maybe I knew but—I didn’t _care._ ”

“Stiles—”

“I knew, Chris. I knew what he was the instant I saw him and,” Stiles pauses, sighs, and counts his fingers idly. “I _liked_ it.”

Chris is so still behind him that Stiles isn’t sure he’s breathing. Stiles is, though.

These jagged little breathes keep pushing their way into his lungs. In, in, out, in, out, out, in, in, in, outin.

He can’t help it. He did this. It’s all his fault. Just like before with Allison… It’s all his fault. Everyone was right to treat him like they did. They knew— _Scott knew_. It was just a matter of time before Stiles did it again, before he endangered everyone he cared about with his selfishness and nihilism.

Stiles doesn’t want to be this way. He never asked for it, never wanted to be the kind of person who drew death out for entertainment.

The world goes splotchy, blurred. Stiles’ chest hurts, lungs too full and not full enough.

His mom would hate the man he’s become.

There’s a ringing in his ears like canned screams, tinny and distant.

“I did this.”

It’s probably a small kindness that he most likely won’t survive it this time.

“I liked it.”

And he did. He got off on it; on the possibility of what Mandeep could do to him.

There’s a voice that almost sounds like it’s saying his name but it’s far away, passed the roots of him, beyond the clearing, way out away from his timbers, distant.

Far more so than the wolves.

“ _Stiles!”_

There’s no way he can reach it.

_Are you in there?_

He’s just a leaf tethered to a tree.

_Come on. Come back to me._

Whipped in a tumultuous wind of his own making.

**_Stiles!_ **

This is his punishment. This is what he deserves.

_Darling. Please. I need you._

He cannot change the geography of his situation.

The world explodes into greens, cut through with circumscribing black lines.

_It's dangerous out here, come on._

He screams. The sound of sirens, the kind that warn of tornados, of disaster and strife and terror.

_My darling, please. Please._

This is all he is. All he can ever be.

It’s all that comes natural to him.

_We need to get inside._

He is disaster.

He is discord.

 _Tornado sirens._  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The summary quote is another Joan Didion one also from The Year of Magical Thinking. 
> 
> I almost made it a quote from The Body, a BTVS episode but I'm saving that one for later. 
> 
> It's gonna go slow for like a chapter or two and then pick up with the action again. I'm trying to keep the pacing even but it's getting a little more difficult to do the more the external issues become present. Please be patient while I work through this awkward time in the story.


	22. Commercial For Levi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It is not light that we need, but fire; it is not the gentle shower, but thunder. We need the storm, the whirlwind, and the earthquake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is slowly driving me mad.

“There must be a torrential storm going on outside,” is the first thing Stiles thinks when he wakes. Shortly followed by, “it matches my insides.”

He’d smile at that if such an expression didn’t seem beyond him. Instead, he rolls onto his side and looks out the window, trying to swallow the feeling of waves that overtakes him at the act of moving.

He can’t see anything but black out the window. Either night has come or the storm is bigger than he thought. Stiles lays there, like that, for a while, just counting seconds. He doesn’t know what time it is and he doesn’t care. All that matters is he can read the writing on the wall. He painted it himself—with help from Dad.

Imperial, Missouri 63052 is mostly what it says. Every once in a while, his dad’s handwriting cuts through his. “I love you, son,” with little blue hearts.

Sometimes, Stiles believes it.

Faintly, he can hear voices. They might be coming from downstairs. Carefully he sits up, stands, and moves across the room to his door. The blood in his veins feels molasses thick, as if it’s too heavy to keep him going for long. It makes it an effort to walk the distance.

Stiles pauses at the door, leans against the wall as the border throbs in his consciousness, letting him know that his dad is there and Chris, Ceana, Al, Wynn, and Ed. He grabs the doorknob, pushes before he turns it to avoid the loud click it makes due to too many nights of Stiles’ dad nearly breaking it down in his rush to get to him.

Avoiding the creaky floorboards and the third step, which is squeaky, is second nature. Stiles is sitting halfway down the stairs leaning against the railing without a sound. He closes his eyes and listens.

“Thanks.”

“Coffee is just one of the few amenities offered at hotel Stilinski.”

Silence. Six seconds.

“I know he’s left out some of the details,” Dad states.

“That does sound like him.”

Stiles breathes past the little jolt at that.

“So you’re going to tell me.”

“If— _if_ I do know everything and I tell you, I’d be breaking his trust. If I don’t know and I tell you what I think it is, I could be giving dangerous misinformation.”

Dad laughs.

“So either you’re not telling me out of loyalty or ignorance.”

“It could be both.”

Twenty four seconds of silence.

“Do you—” Dad pauses, sighs. “What’s going on… it’s dangerous. I wouldn’t blame you for leaving.”

“But I would,” Chris says in a quiet voice that Stiles can barely hear. “I don’t want to lose anyone else.”

“Is that it?”

Dad’s voice is hard when he says that. It’s the same voice he uses when he’s disappointed in Stiles.

Hand clutching at the railing, Stiles holds his breath.

“No but anything else it might be is between me and Stiles.”

“I’m glad to hear that. And I’m sure he is as well, right kiddo?” Dad asks, raising his voice at the end.

Stiles winces. He should have known better. His dad always knows. He stands slowly, turns, and heads back into his room.

Before the door shuts, he hears his dad say, “Go on. If you’re going to violate my child you could at least comfort him too.”

Stiles grabs his smokes and climbs out the window.

 

It takes Chris five minutes to find Stiles where he’s sitting on the overhang for the back of the house. There’s a few feet of roof from the second floor above him, just enough to keep his cigarette mostly not wet. The rain is heavy, so much so that Stiles can barely see beyond his little section of dry.

The air is warm, sticky, in what will probably be the last summer thunderstorm.

“You’re gonna catch a cold out here,” Chris says, sitting down next to Stiles.

“Not the biggest of my problems right now.”

Chris sniffs. Lightning cuts through the dark, turning everything violently purple for a few seconds. Stiles counts.

“I suppose it’s—”

Thunder cuts him off, vibrating the roof below them. Four seconds. Lightning again.

“Look, Stiles. I—”

Terror seizes Stiles, makes him throw away his cigarette and launch himself at Chris. He makes a surprised noise, mouth parting. Stiles climbs into his lap and slots their mouths together. He doesn’t care, Stiles really doesn’t. Not about what could and will happen to him.

But Chris and his dad… he cares about them; about how they could suffer for his actions.

Chris’ hands grip his hips, mouth moving against Stiles, seemingly as desperate. Stiles buries fingers in Chris’ hair with the intention to never find them again, glad for the rain and how it can hide certain things. Chris pulls away, Stiles tries to follow but then Chris’ hands are there, cool against his ears, holding him back. He smiles at Stiles, sliding his thumb back and forth over Stiles’ mark of self.

“It’s fine, Stiles. Everything is going to be fine.”

Stiles shivers, face scrunching up.

He can’t hold his arms up anymore.

They fall.

It’s the first rattling drag of breath, the kind look in Chris’ eyes, and then Stiles is sobbing.

He doesn’t know why; he can’t articulate it. He’s sad all the time, near numb with it, but this is different.

Stiles wails, eyes stinging, chest burning, as lightning and thunder fight in the sky.

Chris wraps his arms around him and Stiles gives, face wet, pressed against Chris’ neck. He weeps like a scared little child, lost in the deep dark woods. He grieves for all that he has and all that he will destroy.

Everything hurts and it’s his fault.

 

The room is dark, the house still. The storm abated not too long ago into a light drizzle. Stiles is half asleep, cold and still a little damp in part from the rain and part because of the humid air coming in from the open window. Stiles has his face pressed against Chris’ neck, arms tucked into his chest, and Wynn chewing at the dead skin around his thumbnail.

Stiles sighs, Wynn pauses, kisses Stiles’ knuckle, and leaps onto Chris. Stiles watches in the dim light as Wynn runs down the length of Chris’ torso, squeaks, and tumbles off, falling in between them.

Chris makes a weird, “Chih!” noise and twitches.

“Are you really planning on keeping them out all night?”

He had. They make him feel better.

“I can put them up.”

“I wou—fuck! Ow. _Shit._ ”

Chris flinches, rolling away and shoving Wynn back off him.

“Fffuck,” he hisses, cupping his groin. “ _He bit me.”_

Stiles blinks, looks between Chris’ face and hands. Wynn just… Stiles’ face contorts, his ribs ache briefly, then he’s laughing.

“Why are you laughing? He _bit_ me.”

Stiles laughs harder, hugging himself because it won’t stop.

Ed climbs onto Stiles’ hip and runs up Stiles’ shaking body to put paws and kisses on Stiles’ face. Wynn squeaks and runs at Chris who squawks and scrambles off the bed and Stiles can’t stop laughing.

He doesn’t know how long he laughs like that, little rat bodies running over him, Chris standing a foot from the bed with this indignant look on his face, hands still shielding his dick, but when the laughter dies out, Stiles’ face hurts, his stomach aches, and Ed and Wynn are standing between him and Chris, shoulders together, eyes trained on Chris like tiny fuzzy attack rats ready to defend.

Still grinning, Stiles picks them up, much to their protesting, and deposits them in their cage. He walks over to Chris, cups his face with both hands, and kisses him.

Chris kisses back slowly, as if he’s not sure about it. Stiles pulls back. He’s trying to stop smiling but he can’t. Chris gives him an off look.

“What?”

Chris shakes his head, reaching out to touch Stiles’ sides with the tips of his fingers.

“Nothing. You’re just—gorgeous when you smile.”

Something sharp and bright races through Stiles at that. He stops breathing for a moment, the whole world suspended in a word. Then it rushes back and Stiles moves, air whistling between his teeth as he inhales. He pushes Chris with both hands, shoves so hard he stumbles and falls onto the bed.

Stiles follows after him as Chris scrambles farther back.

“Stiles, what—”

Stiles grabs Chris’ sweatpants by the waistband and yanks them off.

“What’re you doing?” Chris whispers loudly, eyes flicking to the door.

“He bit you.”

Chris stills. Stiles takes advantage of this moment of confusion to crawl over Chris and bunch his T-shirt up in his hands.

“Yes?”

Stiles stoops down, licks a line up Chris’ neck to his ear.

“So I’m gonna kiss it better.”

Chris shivers, mouth dropping open.

“You’re dad’ll hear us; I’m not—I’m not exactly _quiet._ ”

Stiles pulls Chris’ shirt off, something burning hot and bright in his chest.

“Stiles! _What if he hears us?”_

Stiles kisses him once, hard, sliding his hands down Chris’ chest.

“You really think me blowing my boyfriend is the worst thing he’s ever heard?” Stiles mutters as he trails sporadic kisses down Chris’ torso.

Chris’ voice is quiet when he answers, small, and shocked.

“Your boyfriend?”

Stiles stills, eyes going wide. His heart hammers in his chest. He didn’t mean to say that. He didn’t mean for that whole thing to be out loud.

Chris’ hand rises from the bed, touches Stiles’ cheek.

“Am I your boyfriend?”

Stiles closes his eyes, heart thundering in his ears so loud he almost misses what Chris says next.

“Because I want to be that. So much, darling.”

Stiles breathes. Eighteen seconds of restless stillness. He nods.

“Yeah. That. Yeah. If you—Yeah.”

Stiles opens his eyes. Chris is grinning so wide that his eyes seem to sparkle with it. The whole room gets brighter and this time Stiles knows it’s him.

“Come here,” Chris asks in a gentle voice.

Stiles does as he’s told.

Chris kisses him soft, and careful, and so very thoroughly.

Stiles breathes in through his nose, feeling his ribs expand under Chris’ hands. He has to close his eyes against the brightness in the room but that’s fine. It’s really very fine.

Especially when Chris’ hands slide down to cup Stiles’ ass, his teeth grazing over Stiles’ bottom lip, before he pulls back to kiss at Stiles’ neck, beard scratching lightly at the skin there.

Body trembling, Stiles curves into the touch, fingers curling claw-like into the mattress. This is good. The world throbs in and out of focus, the only thing continuously clear, pristine, is where Stiles can feel Chris touching him.

“I know you said you wanted to kiss it better, but,” Chris pauses to suck on Stiles’ earlobe. “Can I? I want to taste you like—like this.”

Stiles shudders, body throbbing. There is a cosmos under Stiles’ skin that flares wherever Chris’ skin meets his. He is multitudes, each piece of him growing, pulsing, on its own.

“ _Yes, yes, yes, Chris—”_

Stiles slides to the side, lays down, and watches as Chris levers himself up, huddling his body over Stiles. He kisses at Stiles’ neck again and Stiles sighs, releasing carbon dioxide like a tree in reverse, soaking up the wetness of Chris’ mouth as it moves across his skin, beard scratchy as bark as he covers Stiles. Everything gets brighter and brighter, light shifts across the walls like dappled sunrays through the branches. There’s a tongue, round like vines, against his stomach and Stiles breathes in the scent of Chris, of rats, of dog, of Dad and home and rain, and releases himself, curls his fingers into the mattress and arches the trunk of his body off the bed, up and up and up until Chris is there with cool fingers, pressing him down into the earth. Stiles is rooted there, by those cool fingers and that wet mouth, as he shakes, bows like a tree in strong winds, and does not break.

 

Stiles’ coffee is black, the sky is a crystalline post-storm blue, and the wind is a gentle reminder of motion. He sits on the back porch, left hand twirling his cigarette, right resting next to his coffee. There are so many birds out this morning that Stiles can’t count them all as they sing and flit from branch to branch in the early morning sunlight. The bricking under his feet is damp and cool, his hair shifts in the breeze like leaves, the sun is soft but insistent where it reaches his skin. It’s mornings like these that make him wonder why he moved out of JeffCo.

Stiles tilts his head back, closing his eyes, and breathes. He could stay out here, like this, all day.

The back door opens with a familiar screech and Ceana barks, excited, as she takes off into the yard. He listens to her paws across the bricks then grass.

“You’re gonna have to wipe her down before she comes back in,” Stiles says as he opens his eyes.

Dad shrugs as he sets down a plate of cinnamon toast and banana slices on the patio table.

“It’s bath day for her anyway.”

Dad takes the seat next to him. It’s quiet, save the birdsong and barking, long enough that his dad devours one of the slices of toast. Stiles’ cigarette has burned down to the butt. He tosses it into the ashtray and lights up another.

“Son,” Dad says, wiping his hands on his pajama pants.

“Dad…”

Dad scrunches up his face as if what he’s going to say makes him uncomfortable.

“About Argent, do you—do you love him?”

Stiles inhales when he should be exhaling, coughs, eyes watering with his cigarette dangling between his lips.

“What?”

Dad frowns, pushes Stiles’ coffee towards him. Stiles picks it up and takes a drink.

“Do you love him?”

Stiles opens his mouth, closes it, opens it again, breathes in, then takes a long drag from his cigarette.

“Well son?”

Stiles shrugs, heart racing.

“I don’t—I dunno.”

Dad tucks his chin in, eyebrows making a slow trot of disbelief towards his hairline.

Stiles clenches his jaw, breathes through his nose, exhales, takes another drag of his cigarette.

“Does it matter?” He asks in a quiet voice, smoke purling out of his mouth with each word.

“Yes.”

Stiles looks down, flicks his thumbnail over the butt of his cigarette, making ash fall slowly from it, and thinks.

He thinks about waking up not too long ago, warm and unafraid, with his arms around Chris. He thinks about sitting next to him as their clothes mingle in the wash, both of them reading quietly. He thinks about how he reached for Chris’ hand in the car and how it was there, cool, dry, and comforting, as their fingers locked together over the gearshift. Stiles looks up at his dad, thinking of this, and already sees comprehension in his dad’s eyes.

Ceana barks. Birds sing. Stiles’ heart settles and he breathes an easy breath because his father knows him, has known him, since the moment he drew his first breath to cry.

“Alright, son,” Dad says in a quiet, consolatory voice. "Alright."

Stiles closes his eyes, bows his head, and tries not to shake.

Gentle, familiar, hands touch his hair, slide down through it to squeeze his neck.

“I love you, son. Nothing will ever change that. Nothing.”

And, like the child he is, Stiles momentarily believes him. If just for now, sitting on the back porch as birds greet the morning sun with song while they fly between branches on trees vibrant and green, it’s a comfort he can accept.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Summary quote from Frederick Douglass.
> 
> Just noticed that this is the twenty-second chapter and there's still a ways to go. Holy shit.


	23. Scared of Girls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You want to believe that there's one relationship in life that's beyond betrayal. A relationship that's beyond that kind of hurt. And there isn't.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So my old laptop sort of died. Which was tragic in many ways. I've had Bruce for nearly a decade and he's served me well through that time. This chapter will be the first thing I do on my new laptop and I gotta say, I'm missing my old word processor right now. It doesn't actually exist anymore for download which makes me super sad. This new laptop has so many gizmos though. I don't know what to do with myself. All I did was get the basic model and it still does shit I've never even heard of. Let's hope it'll keep me in good terms for another decade. That's all I ask, you know? I don't do much with a laptop save write stuff and watch some shows and every once in a while get destroyed playing video games. So... we shall see how this one holds up to Bruce's legacy.

The sky is blue, small drifts of barely-there clouds moving with a purpose beyond Stiles over the expanse of color, gathering just beyond the line of trees in front of him. He’s got a small pile of spent cigarets at the foot of the tree he’s leaning against and the quiet sound of footsteps approaching. 

Stiles breathes, takes a drag of his cigaret, and closes his eyes. 

The trees whisper to him, so quiet, he can’t make out what they’re saying. It’s as if they've spent too long without needing to speak that they’re unsure, the words feeling foreign in their… mouths? Consciousness? 

“It’s dangerous to be out this far alone.”

Stiles shrugs, opening his eyes to watch Chris walk into the clearing. 

“Dangerous everywhere I am.” 

Chris slings his crossbow over his shoulder. It sways as he takes the last few steps to Stiles like a pendulum measuring the motions of Chris’ body. 

“Then that must make me some kind of thrill-seeker,” he says in a quiet voice, small smile on his face. 

“Maybe,” is all Stiles manages to get out before Chris kisses him. Stiles drops his cigaret, reaching for Chris. 

He’s warm, solid, and— real. 

“Why’re you here?”

Stiles smiles this bitter little thing of an expression, hands lightly tugging at Chris’ shirt. 

“Isn’t that my line?” 

Chris shrugs, leans his forehead against Stiles’. 

“I’m here for you,” he says in the softest voice. The kind that could easily break others. 

Stiles’ heart pings with a strange sensation, his fingers bunching the fabric of Chris’ shirt under his hands. 

“Never leave me,” he wants to say. He wants to say a lot; a whole cavalcade of impossible and irreversible things that will inevitably lead to terror and pain. 

Instead he licks his lips and looks over Chris’ shoulder. 

“Used to come here after— when we moved. Like it.” 

Chris cups Stiles’ jaw, thumb moving back and forth. 

“It’s the tree, isn’t it?” 

Stiles’ skin goes tight, ears ringing briefly. He presses his back hard into the bark behind him. 

“What?” he asks, voice close to a tightly strung instrument.

Chris steps back, hand moving in a sweeping gesture that his eyes follow. 

“It’s alone; out here in the clearing with nothing growing around it.” 

Stiles stares at him hard, heart rate increasing with the speed of the wind. Chris looks back and Stiles can see the unspoken, “Like you,” in his eyes. 

“ _Don’t talk about what you don’t know,”_ Stiles hisses, grabs Chris by the front of the shirt and turns, shoving Chris against the tree. 

Chris grunts with the impact, his crossbow falling to the ground. Stiles kisses him, biting at his lips until Chris cups his face, softens his lips, and gently kisses back. 

“It’s fine.” 

Stiles closes his stinging eyes. There’s a full body ache originating from his core. Everything throbs into painful clarity. 

“It’s fine,” Chris says again and gentles Stiles with soft kisses. Stiles breathes, relaxes into Chris’ body, rests for the moment. 

“Oh, that’s so sweet.” 

As one, Chris and Stiles both tense, Stiles’ head bending down to rest his forehead against Chris’ shoulder. 

“You two are so cute together.” 

In the corner of his vision, Stiles sees Chris’ eyes dart to the right, towards his crossbow. Stiles breathes in deep, trying not to move before he has to, before he can figure out where the voice is coming from. 

“If I hadn’t just got my heart broken, I’d be happy for you, baby.” 

Behind Stiles, nearly perfectly so. 

“Don’t call me that,” Stiles calls out and jerks himself to the left, pivoting to face him. His eyes focus in on Mandeep in time to see him frown. He can hear Chris move to his side, just out of his line of sight. 

“Why? You used to love it.” 

Stiles shakes his head, reaching into his pocket slowly, as casually as he can. 

“Lying doesn’t suit you,” Mandeep tells him in an even, near-angered tone. 

“I’m not.” 

Mandeep shrugs, taking the last few steps into the clearing. 

“No closer.” Chris states, voice clear, calm. 

Stiles envies him. 

Mandeep’s eyes flick to him briefly then return to Stiles, wind ruffling his hair. 

“Come on, Stiles. Just come back to me. I miss you…” 

Stiles tightens his jaw, fingers slowly working open the pouch in his pocket. 

_We cannot be tamed._

“Be mine again. It’ll be good. You know I can make you happy, _baby_.” 

_Show him._

“No.” 

Stiles doesn’t know if he means no he won’t or no Mandeep can’t but he doesn’t think it matters; the end result is the same. 

Mandeep bites his lip, tilting his chin down so his bangs hang in front of his eyes. 

“Please?”

“N—”

“I will beg if I have to,” Mandeep nearly shouts, face straightening out, something almost like fear under his smile. “I know how much you hate that. You can even— you can even keep messing around with him if you say you’re mine.” 

Stiles slides his left foot back, body trying to get away from the man in front of him. 

_Show him._

“Mandeep—”

Mandeep takes a step closer, reaching out like Stiles is close enough to take, small enough to be carried away in one hand. 

“Why does he get you and I don’t?”

Stiles shakes his head, mind reeling with how abhorrent he finds belonging to _anyone._ He can’t explain it. Maybe he doesn’t want to. 

“I don’t—”

“You don’t know?” Mandeep’s voice starts to get reedy like it does when he’s desperate or scared. “Baby…” 

Stiles just keeps shaking his head, a silent but emphatic, “No.” 

“Why are you so against it now? You didn’t seem to care when it was Sabrina.” 

Stiles’ eyes widen, mouth parting. He stills. Mandeep knows about Sabrina?

“In fact,” Mandeep says, licks his lips. “I’m sure you would have loved that; both of us at once.” 

Stiles’ eyes dart to his side, to where Chris is standing at the ready, crossbow raised, body loose and prepared. 

“Shut up.” 

Mandeep frowns, wind pushing his shirt against his body, blowing away from Stiles. It’s getting stronger, clouds gathering in the sky. There’s going to be a storm soon. 

“Why? Did you not tell him? I can help with that. I know how you don’t like to talk.” 

Stiles’ heart thunders in his ears, everything throbs in vibrant technicolor. 

“Stiles likes her, you see. She’s a dominatrix and it took her all of five minutes to get Stiles on his knees. You should have seen him. What did she call you? An eager little punishment slut? No, a _pain whore._ ” 

Mandeep shoves his hands into his pockets and starts to walk closer again. Stiles clenches his hand, finally managing to get the pouch open. He breathes in deep, lets it out in one smooth push. 

“If you think you can keep him with nice feelings and a warm bed, you can’t. He’ll always go back to the ones who promise him pain.” Mandeep’s voice is quiet, slightly angry, when he speaks now and Stiles just needs him to get a few feet closer. 

“I really do love you, Stiles. I’m so sorry it had to be this way.” 

Stiles shakes his head, again, stomach knotting. He can’t believe anything he says. He just can’t. 

“I wanted it to be me. So bad. I knew others had tried and failed but I thought—” 

Mandeep screws his face up into something that’s almost a smile. 

“Doesn’t matter what I thought cause now they’re gonna do it the hard way.”

“Who is?” Chris asks, voice still even as if he’s heard none of this or all of it and not cared. Stiles isn’t sure which one of those options would be worse. 

“Stiles knows, ask him to answer that.” 

Stiles’ jaw tightens. He doesn’t know what Mandeep is talking about. 

“After all, he’s the one who started it.” 

Mandeep stares at Stiles, face strangely cool as if Stiles had betrayed him, brought this down on the both of them. That— That Stiles could believe. Had he been the one to invite whatever this was going on into his life? Into Chris’? Maybe, maybe he _had_ asked for it. Somehow, someway. What if his actions, his desires, had been the one to cause Mandeep and whoever else is involved to do what they were doing. 

“Bullshit.” 

An arrow whizzes in front of Stiles’ line of sight and plants itself like an overeager root right into Mandeep’s stomach. Stiles stands there, breathing, as red blooms on Mandeep’s shirt, hands coming up to cup the stalk of it. Mandeep staggers, eyes wide. He looks up at Stiles as he falls to one knee, black already taking over his veins. 

“Stiles,” Mandeep breathes out, voice almost lost in the sudden stillness of the woods. 

“We need to go,” Chris says. 

Hands grab Stiles, dragging him back, pulling him in the direction of home. 

Stiles shakes the hand off, takes a deep breath, grabs Chris’ hand and runs. He doesn’t stop, doesn’t slow down, runs on instinct until the colors of the forest blur together, until it seems as if the trees part before him and sunlight streams soft and dappled into a dim line of light barely bright enough for human eyes to see the path before him. 

Stiles looks to his side, grinning. Chris is there, eyes wide, mouth parted, his hand holding tight to Stiles’. He doesn’t look afraid, no, just surprised maybe. Stiles twists, runs backwards for long enough to open his arms and catch Chris, then stops so fast that Chris stumbles into him. They fall, rolling across the border into his dad’s front lawn. Stiles laughs as they tumble together. 

When they stop, Stiles is under Chris, smiling up at him, the clouds in the sky glow behind Chris’ head a quiet gunmetal gray. The woods and the border sing in his ears and everything is vibrant, pulsing to his eyes. Chris breathes hard above him, eyes wide, body shaking just a little.

Stiles reaches up, grabs onto Chris’ shirt. He’s going to pull him down, kiss him like this. It would feel good, perfect, to fuck him when he feels this way, while the trees sing so sweet and the grass below him is soft. 

Something flickers across Chris’ face as Stiles looks up at him and Mandeep’s betrayed expression looms back into focus in his mind’s eye. It’s not that the look on Chris’ face is similar. It’s not that. But—

Stiles pushes Chris off of him and slowly gets to his feet, wraps his arms around himself, and walks to the front door. 

“Stiles!” 

Stiles shakes his head, keeps walking. 

“Stiles, wait.” 

He plans to leave Chris kneeling in the yard, crossbow sagging into the grass, hand reaching for him. He plans to go sit on the roof and think on how many of his ex-lovers had been in on it, on if that was how he kept managing to get them. On whether or not he was some shitty cereal prize they tried to get. 

“Stiles—” 

A hand settles on his shoulder, strong but light. It tugs on him, trying to turn him. 

_“Don’t touch me._ ”

It’s gone and, with it, Stiles. In the house, up the stairs, and into his dad’s room. 

He crosses the floor on shaky legs, stands at the foot of the bed. His dad is sleeping on his stomach, hand reaching across to the empty side of the bed. He’s rumpled and frowning in his sleep. This is how he’s slept every night since… since she left. 

It’s two in the afternoon, blood has been spilt, and his dad is reaching for someone who can never reach back. 

Stiles kicks off his shoes, toes his socks off, and crawls onto the bed, unable or unwilling to allow his dad the luxury of a peaceful sleep, unable or unwilling to stand thinking on how _much_ his father has lost. 

“Wh—Stiles?”

Stiles tugs the blankets down, crawls into that empty space next to him, then pulls the blankets back over both of them. 

“Son, are you alright?”

Hands touch him, pulling. Stiles closes his eyes and rolls with them, shoves until his face is pressed into a warm, familiar chest. 

“No,” he says and his voice is something tiny, flightless, something broken. “No.” 

Arms wrap around him, lips press into the top of his head and Stiles loses it. 

He cries. Quiet, heaving things that do not expel themselves but sit higher and higher on his chest until it feels as if they’re going to smother him. 

“Shhh… It’s alright. I’ve got you.” 

Stiles cries harder, digs his fingers into soft cotton and curls into himself, attempting to fit himself entirely in the safe embrace of his father. 

“I love you. I always will. It’s alright. Everything is alright.” 

“No,” Stile shoves out between one wracking breath and the next. “No, no. No.” 

“Shhhh. I’ve got you.” 

Everything hurts. 

 

 

“Stiles, wake up.” 

Stiles buries his face farther into the pillow. It smells like Old Spice and Head ’n’ Shoulders. 

“I made dinner.” 

He just wants to sleep forever and maybe not wake up, is that too much to ask? To be able to rest?

“You gotta eat, son.” 

He’s so tired all the time. 

 

 

There. At the border. Standing right outside it. Something like lilacs, like orchids. Bruise colored flowers for the grieving. 

Stiles sits up, pushes the blankets off of him, then stands. It must be late; the room is dark and the curtains drawn. 

On quiet feet, Stiles makes his way to the door. It’s calling to him like the cats on silent feet. He can’t ignore it. 

It doesn’t take much to get outside. Whether that’s skill or inattentiveness on the others in the house doesn’t matter to him. She’s there, simply there, at the edge of the border. 

The grass is cool. damp, under his bare feet and the moon is a strong enough light this far away from the city that it doesn’t matter when the porch light’s sensor doesn’t pick him up and turn on at his movement. 

She smiles. 

Stiles stops a few feet away. 

“I’m sorry.” 

The worst part is that Stiles believes her; believes the bruised sounds that leave her throat like near-rotten fruit. The grass snickers around Stiles’ toes and he clenches his jaw. The trees tell him nothing and the air is still. 

“I thought—” She stops, smiles, brushing her fingers through her recently shorn hair. “I let them convince me that you knew. I’m so sorry, Stiles.” 

Stiles nods, wanting a cigaret, for something to burn like he wishes this bridge would. 

“It’s just— When I saw the pictures and videos they had— I _wanted_ you. You’re so gorgeous…” 

She sighs, nibbles at her lip. 

“I should have known better. I did. _I knew better_. It was selfish of me. You couldn’t consent if you didn’t _know_ the whole thing and I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” 

Stiles breathes, tapping each pad of his fingers against his thumb in order. One-one, two-two, three-three, four-four. 

Again.

And again.

“I know I don’t have a place in your life anymore but if there’s anything I can do— Any way I can make at least some of this up to you— let me know. I want—”

She closes her eyes as if she’s the one suffering, arms cradling her stomach. 

“I want you so much. When I’m around you, I can make them out. When I touch you, it’s— Stiles, I’ve been able to sense them my whole life but I can’t— I can’t communicate like you can; I can’t understand them. Except when you’re there _They sing._ ”

She smiles, sniffles. The trees move in a breeze that does not touch Stiles. He’s incapable, he knows, of articulating how wrong she is, how impossible what she says is. Leaves hiss against each other and Stiles stands, deciding. He can’t tell her but… They can. And once she learns, once she understands, then maybe he can. 

“Come here,” Stiles says, less certain than he wants to be. 

“W-why?”

Stiles shrugs. 

“Wanna give you something.”

“I can’t get any closer. I tried,” She says, purple lips turning down at the corners like a perplexed orchid. 

Stiles breathes, rubbing dry palms against his thighs. 

“If you can, you can.” 

His mom used to say things like that; “It’ll happen if it happens,” “If it won’t, it won’t.” 

She takes in a deep breath and steps over the wood. She crosses it and stops a foot away. 

Stiles feels some of the tension ease in his shoulders. He sighs in relief. 

Her arms move, twitch like seaweed in an unseen current at her sides. 

“Did I pass?” She asks, her mauve lips quirking. 

Stiles nods. 

She smiles. 

“Hoop one: Jumped.” 

Stiles hugs himself, shakes his head. 

She holds out her hand. Stiles shakes his head again. Three times. 

“Not like that.” 

“Then how?”

He touches fingers to her hips, lets his fingers stutter their way up and under her shirt, pull lightly at her skin. He leans forward, touches his pink lips to her purple ones, thinks about cat tails twitching in the air to an unseen and unheard broadcast, about how it felt when she slid her sticky lips over welts and bruises, thinks of the smell of thyme and the sight of morning glories blooming with the sunrise. He thinks of this, of every sensation he associates with her and how it felt to be held and pet by her, swaddled in purple sheets and prose and pushes it between her lips with his tongue. 

Her lilac nails dig into his chest, sting through his T-shirt. She moans, chest heaving, and shakes. 

Stiles pulls back and she follows, nipping at his lips. 

“I give it to you, take this,” Stiles whispers into her open mouth. “Take this so you can understand, comprehend, and when you know, find me, tell it to me, teach it to me.” 

“Stiles… Oh, mijo. It’s so…” 

Stiles takes her bottom lip between his teeth, hands sliding up until he’s stopped by her bra. 

“This isn’t forgiveness,” Stiles tells her. 

He’s not sure what it is though. He doesn't know if it’s a gift or a curse or so much as simply what he’s done. 

“It’s so… so todo es tan brillante.”

She leans back, putting her trust into Stiles to keep her up as she stares at the trees surrounding them. 

“El mundo está _en llamas.”_

She goes limp. Stiles grunts, trying to keep her off the ground. 

“Barkatu,” he whispers, either a command or a confession, he does not know which. 

Her body shakes. Stiles watches her eyes turn white, chalky, then swirl, soft curves of lavender winding its way through the cement cracks in her eyes. 

“Goddess, help me,” Is the last thing Sabrina says before she’s out, body folding like a lawn chair over Stiles’ arm. 

He scoops her up, turns back towards the house, stills. 

Chris is standing on the porch, holding the screen door open. From this distance, Stiles can’t tell what look he has on his face. Chris shifts, shuffling in place like he wants to move but can’t decide where to go. 

The porch light finally turns on. 

Stiles looks down, watches the ground move as he carries Sabrina’s limp body like a child-bride towards the threshold of his father’s home. Sabrina’s lipstick has smeared, rubbed across her mouth like the world’s most gentle of bruises. Something thick like sap and pearl-pink is mixed with it. Stiles doesn’t know what this means, what consequences he has brought on them. 

He wonders when he’ll stop lying to himself as he takes the final step inside. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to disclaimer this with my Spanish isn't even passable and my Basque is nonexistent. Summary from a Caleb Carr interview with the Salon.
> 
> I'd like to point out at this time that for the quotes I use in this story, I may not entirely or at all agree with the author's ideologies or holistic messages but that the quotes themselves are something that I find may somehow enhance the tone of the chapter or inform on the state of mind of the characters. While some of the things I quote are authors or works that I endorse and recommend, some of them are not. I may appreciate their wording, that specific line, or their talent, but I cannot condone the points of view of some of the artists I have quoted.


	24. Ask For Answers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [She] had heard it said that there was only one emotion which, in recollection, was capable of resurrecting the full immediacy and power of the original—one emotion that time could never fade, and that would drag you back any number of years into the pure, undiluted feeling, as if you were living it anew. It wasn’t love… and it wasn’t hate, or anger, or happiness, or even grief. Memories of those were but echoes of the true feeling.
> 
> It was shame. Shame never faded.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last night the roommate came home drunk and he brought be Jack in the Box because I texted him to pick up cucumbers for my dinner and he drunkenly thought that I asked him to pick me up dinner. When I told him happy birthday, he threw his arms up in the air (halfway through the drunken process of getting undressed in the living room, I might add) and yelled, "HAPPY BIRTHDAY!"   
> And then proceeded to sit in the recliner for a very long time trying to figure out how to eat tacos while he told me about his birthday shenanigans. He was very upset about the fact that he only ran into one of our friends at the Crack Fox and lamented that some sort of chocolate baileys drink was bad tasting. He also tried to talk in French but basically all he knows is goodby, I'm sorry, and I am a boy. How was your Friday night?

It’s Stiles’ turn to find Chris hiding. 

His dad is upstairs wetting a cloth in something that smells like aloe and motherwort and wiping it with practiced ease over Sabrina’s glowing skin and Stiles can’t bear to watch anymore. It makes him feel too much like he’s looking at a memory, something long forgotten and that’s hidden the reasoning on why it’s so familiar. 

He finds him in the kitchen, sitting on the floor, Ceana’s head in his lap and a cup of coffee standing guard on the other side. Chris is looking down at Ceana’s head, one hand threaded in her thick fur. Stiles can’t help but think this is an old habit and not something new. People tend to do that, Stiles knows; revert to old, safe behaviors when things are stressful. He knows he does. 

Stiles takes the coffee cup’s place, wrapping the room temperature ceramic in his hands.

Fifty-two seconds of silence. 

“What did you do to her?

Stiles leans his head back against the cupboards, breathes as he watches the ceiling fan turn in slow, ineffective circles. 

“Gave her what she wanted.” 

Four seconds of silence. 

“By kissing her?”

Chris’ voice is soft and strange like burnt papers between wet fingers. 

Stiles nods. 

“Stiles, if you don’t— I can’t— _I can’t._ ” 

Stiles moves his body sideways, brushes his shoulder against Chris’. Ceana whines. 

“I won’t make you.” 

Chris sighs. 

“You can’t say that with her lipstick on your mouth.” 

Stiles huffs, shifts, watches the coffee in the mug sway with his movement. 

“Lots of things I can’t say.”

Chris takes his turn to huff. 

Stiles knows it’s coming, the warning tone.

“Stiles…” 

Right on time. 

“I’m not sorry,” Stiles blurts out and watches Ceana then Chris tense at his abrupt rise in volume. Stiles looks down, licks his lips. He can taste it, the tang of Sabrina’s lipstick is right there letting him know his mouth is a smear of bruise colors, a mask of shame similar to a walk of shame except easier to telegraph and harder to cover up. Mandeep is superimposed over Chris, looking up at Stiles and asking him _why_ with teary eyes _. “_ I’m not gonna say I don’t want her.” 

Stiles pauses, watching Ceana heave herself to her feet and out of the room. It’s silent long enough that Stiles hears the fourth step squeak with her weight. He wishes Chris had hid outside like Stiles does so that Stiles could light the cigaret he so desperately needs. 

Chris ducks his head and Stiles watches his Adam’s apple bob. 

“Don’t—”

Stiles sets the coffee cup down, touches Chris’ cheek. He doesn’t know what to say; what should come after the but that’s clogged in his throat like hair in the drain. It could be three words or four, maybe five. He’s too afraid to know. 

Instead, he slides his fingers down over stubble, delicate skin, a small scar, and curls his fingers around neck, turns to press his forehead into Chris’ cheek, keeps moving until he can feel hair against his closed eyes, smell the man living next to him’s shampoo. 

He’s too much of a coward to say it, not brave enough by half to pantomime it with someone else’s lipstick on his mouth. 

Chris sighs. 

“Alright,” he says. “Alright. Just— just don’t do that again?”

Stiles smiles, levers a leg over Chris, slides both hands through that hair. 

“Can I do it to you?”

Chris’ fingers flutter at Stiles’ sides, perch against his hips as his eyes move to Stiles’ lips. 

“If I asked you to wash your face first, would I ruin the mood?”

Stiles snorts out a, “No,” and climbs off of Chris. 

It’s quiet as Stiles runs the kitchen sink, taking soapy fingers and rubbing his mouth. He does it by feel, bringing hands to water, water to mouth, until he can no longer pick up the tart taste of lipstick, feel it sticky on his skin, resistant to the water. If Chris moves or watches during this, Stiles does not know. He turns the faucet off, reaches for the sunflower patterned kitchen towel. 

Hands touch his hips, cool and steady. 

Stiles yanks the towel off the rod, wipes at his mouth. 

“Would it be too crude for you if I gave you a hickey here?” Chris asks then kisses lightly at Stiles’ neck. 

Stiles sighs, leans back into Chris as he sets the towel down on the counter.

“Maybe.” 

“Please?” 

Stiles closes his eyes, body tense. He can feel her above them now, a hot coal light in the expanse, nearly beckoning to him. 

“I’m not chattel to be branded,” Stiles snaps. 

“I know. But it might make me feel better.” 

“Not enough to know I’m going to bed with you, not her?”

Stiles watches Chris shake his head and shrug in the dark reflection of the kitchen window. He turns in the circle of Chris’ arms, feels trapped, confined, like an animal tricked into a cage. Chris is frowning this tiny little thing that Stiles wants to press the pad of his thumb to and smear across the canvas of Chris’ skin like he has nearly every other piece of himself. 

“I just watched you kiss a beautiful woman to the point she feinted, a woman you admit that you want. Can’t I have this?”

Stiles breathes, tracing fingertips up Chris’ arms, He doesn’t deserve this. 

“I know it’s selfish and petty,” Chris continues. 

Stiles kisses Chris as soft and as careful as Chris has ever kissed him. It’s nearly— _nearly_ — a comfort to know that Chris is at least a little messed up over this; that Stiles isn’t the only one being stupid and compulsive when it comes to them. 

“If I say no, will you do it anyway?”

Chris’ frown, if possible, gets smaller. 

“No.” 

“If I say no, will you resent me for it?”

Chris tilts his head, eyes narrowing as his fingers press slightly more firm against Stiles’ hips. 

“Yes, but only for a little bit.” 

Stiles kisses Chris, a light peck to the seed-sized compression of his lips. 

“OK.”

Chris screws up his face, tucking his chin in, a small smile peeking out. 

“If I do this, will you resent it?”

Stiles shrugs.

“I’ll get over it.” 

Chris laughs quietly. It lights up his face in ways that make Stiles’ insides squirm. 

“How long will that take?” 

Stiles kisses him slowly, dragging his lips over stubble when he’s done. 

“Less time then it’d take to get over you.” 

Chris breathes in deep, presses his mouth against Stiles’. His lips are firm, insistent, as they move against Stiles’ and Stiles makes this small little grunting noise, looping his arms around Chris’ neck. 

Chris moves in closer, kisses him harder, hands going down and back. Fingers drag against Stiles’ ass, pulling him closer as Chris trails lips away from Stiles’ mouth, over his jaw. Stiles can’t help the strange chirp he lets out when Chris sucks at his skin, doesn’t want to stop his dick from hardening as he grinds against Chris. One of them whines like a dog presented with a treat when Chris licks at the now sensitized skin of Stiles’ neck. 

With his left hand, Stiles clutches at the shirt on Chris’ back, right grabbing at Chris’ hair. He closes his eyes, remembering what that mouth feels like on other parts of his body. 

Chris grazes the spot with his teeth, licks it again, and sucks so hard it nearly hurts. A noise like a trill leaves Stiles’ mouth and his heart flutters in his chest. 

“Fuck me,” he groans out. “Chrisss.” 

Chris sucks harder, mouth locked over Stiles’ skin, teeth pressing in around where his tongue swirls over skin stretched by the suction of his throat. Stiles wants it someplace else; that suction, that warmth, the want that Chris seems to have for him. 

“Yeah,” Chris responds, sucks so hard at Stiles’ skin that it throbs. 

Stiles’ body is on fire, thrums with an empty ache he’s sure Chris could cure. He’d be down with it, right here in his father’s kitchen, a fast and quiet fuck. Chris bending him over the counter and pounding into him so right and so lovely Stiles knows he’d have to bite his own hand to keep quiet. Maybe Chris could cover his mouth, let Stiles suck at his fingers while he fucks Stiles into ecstasy. 

Chris stops, gives one last lick to the now bruised skin on Stiles’ neck, kisses him like an apology, and rests his forehead against Stiles’. 

“Thank you.” 

Stiles huffs, tries to smile. 

“Fucking caveman.” 

Chris snorts, grins, cups Stiles’ head with both hands and massages Stiles’ scalp. 

Stiles involuntarily hums, closes his eyes, and lets Chris rub away. 

Inevitably, his head falls on Chris’ shoulder, arms slacken and droop until they’re little more than dangling. Fingers dig into his neck, knead at knots until Stiles is barely awake, drifting in a sea of tall grass, swaying with the wind of his blood. 

He feels sleepy instead of tired. Relaxed, not resigned, for sleep. 

“Want to go to bed?”

Stiles shakes his head, careful not to displace Chris’ hands on his neck. 

“Why not?”

Stiles shrugs, unwilling to take the energy to say he thinks he’s slept enough already. 

“Other parts of you seem to want to go to bed,” Chris murmurs in a playful tone, butting his hip against Stiles’ still-hard cock. Stiles can hear the smile in his voice. 

“That part just wants to know how long it’ll take for you to make me come on your dick.” 

Chris laughs softly like he’s surprised. 

“That can be arranged.” 

Stiles stays quiet, soaking up every last wet drop of the moment. He wants to, he does; wants Chris to take him upstairs, undress him slowly, and take him apart with hands and mouth and body, then gradually put him back together again using gentle words and the slow rock of their bodies until Stiles explodes like sleepy fireworks. He _wants_ but… 

“I’m good like this just—”

_Hold me. Tell me everything will be alright. Lie to me if you have to._

“Yes,” Chris says, voice still quiet. “You are.” 

 

 

The night is insensibly warm, a bubble of summer humidity before winter beckons insects and birds to rest for the long months ahead. Stiles can taste it in the air, though. The creeping cold is on its way. Rain will turn to sleet, turn to freezing rain, turn to ice, turn to snow in the coming weeks. Winter will come like an all-too-expected neighbor, arriving both early and late at the same time. It will blanket the land and sing the trees to sleep, to die temporarily, before waking again in the spring, stronger, larger, and greener than before. 

If they make it, that is. 

Stiles sits on the front porch, cigaret in one hand, and watches a wolf spider slowly move across the cement. 

“How did you become so strong?” He asks. 

It stills a foot away from Stiles’ toes. It’s the size of some tarantulas but he knows it’s not one of them. He’s seen this one before; it lives in the bush in front of him. He’s watched it for most of its life, observed it grow in size and bravery. 

Stiles raises his cigaret to his mouth, does nothing as it closes the distance between them. 

“Why won’t you tell me how to survive?” 

It doesn’t answer, is incapable of speech. It does, however, reach out and touch Stiles’ foot with one of its legs. 

“I know I can’t do this.” 

The wolf spider, inconsiderate as it is, does not care for Stiles’ problems. He wishes he felt the same way, wishes he were as unaffected. 

It walks under the shadow of Stiles’ foot, unafraid, and disappears into the detritus under the bush. 

 

 

“They approached me about a month or so ago, said they had a friend who’d been in the scene but had fallen out after a bad experience. They said they were worried, that they wanted to re-introduce him to the good side of it; show him that there were still good people who wanted— who wanted what we wanted.” 

Sabrina pauses, clicks purple nails against the kitchen table. 

“I should have known that wasn’t it when they showed me the videos.” 

Stiles snatches up his lemonade and takes a long drink. He may not be the one talking but his throat is parched from words spoken. 

“Videos?” Stiles’ dad asks in his interviewing-the-witness voice. Some habits never die, Stiles thinks.

Sabrina nods, rolls her lips into her mouth. 

“Yeah. There were pictures, too. They started with these ones in a basement, things that had obviously been taken with consent but the further into them I got… well, it was harder to tell and—”

“What was on them?”

Sabrina’s eyes slide to Stiles. He nods in a small jerk of motion, sets his lemonade down. His dad already knows Stiles has done things one might term ‘regrettable.’ Chris, on the other hand… well, Chris should learn. 

“They started with scenes but it didn’t stay that way.” 

“Scenes of what? Can you describe them?”

“I— Stiles, are you OK with me doing that? I don’t want…” 

Stiles shrugs. 

“I consent.” 

“Some of them are—”

“I know. I consent.” 

If Dad thinks the wording is weird, he says nothing. 

“In the first one,” Sabrina starts after taking in a deep breath. “It starts out with him tied up.” 

“The cross?” Stiles asks. 

She shakes her head, her now short hair swaying, nearly bouncing as it returns to curly from her night of sweat and not-sleep. 

“That one came later. It was the horse.” 

Dad frowns, confused. Stiles wishes he could keep his confusion and never learn what his son has done. 

“Think saw horse meets that thing gymnasts balance on. He’s belly-down on it, arms and legs tied to the supports with a ring gag in.” 

“He was gagged?”

Sabrina nods. 

“You said this looked consensual.” 

“They were using a hand cam. Made him look into it when they… utilized the ring gag.” 

“Utilized it?”

They keep talking but Stiles stops listening. Instead he studies the grain of the table and tries to remember who all had been there that night. 

Sonya and John— his ex-master and mistress, Carlos had fucked him, Mike tied him up, Jenny on camera duty, Bradley on the whip/willow switch, Maya and her boy were… watching, Sam had brought the horse, Bradley, Terrence, Tonia, Daria… a couple guys Stiles had only met earlier that day. 

Sonya and John probably still have the papers; medical all-clears and consent documents. If he were still speaking to them, he could ask for them but… he’s not. They might still give them anyway. They didn’t part on bad terms per se. They might want to help if he explained why he needed them. He wouldn’t even have to bend the truth. They were— oh. Oh no. 

“Mistre— Sabrina,” Stiles says, cutting her off in the middle of talking. “Sorry.” 

Stiles looks down, licks his lips. Old habits, he supposes. 

Sabrina is smiling at him when he looks up. 

“It’s OK. What is it?”

“Were they— were they in the videos? People who approached you?” 

She nods. 

“Which— Which ones?”

Stiles’ heart is racing. The world throbs in and out of focus behind Sabrina. He thinks he knows but he’s not sure. He can’t be. It would be too much. 

“The horse, the cross, the, uh, _dinner party_ , one in the woods, a couple short things at Bad Dog, and…” she trails off, looks down at her own glass of lemonade. 

“The proposal?” Stiles asks, voice quiet. 

She nods. 

“Yeah.” 

“Proposal?”

This time it’s Chris, voice cutting through the unsettled quiet. 

Stiles breathes, nods. 

“They asked me to move in with them. Wanted to keep me.” 

“Keep?” 

Stiles swallows. This is his fault. 

“As their live-in.” 

“Did you,” Chris pauses to clear his throat. “Did you take them up on it?”

Stiles shakes his head, withdraws his arms from the table to cross them over his stomach. 

“Told them I wasn’t ready. That I’d had bad experiences with—with things controlling me. Said I hadn’t met someone I could do that with yet and— and I wasn’t comfortable with doing that with the Delmar Divide stuff going on.” 

This time it’s Dad who asks. 

“What does the Divide have to do with this?” 

Stiles shakes his head. He’s having trouble breathing and his eyes hurt. He did invite this. He asked for it. 

“The Divide isn’t just a land division of socio-economic status, it’s… sort of the border of a territory dispute between two packs. Everything even remotely not-human knows it. The stalemate has lasted _decades_. I—” Sabrina pauses, smiles. “Sorry. I wrote my dissertation on the history of the divide. I live on their half. It’s… probably why I believed them so easily. Head of the pack whose land I’m on. They’re always helping us out. I’m not a werewolf but they don't care about that; they take care of their own.” 

Stiles nods, something bitter roiling in his stomach. 

“They like to recruit, trying to build up power to they can _end_ The Divide.” 

“Why didn’t you tell me about this, Stiles?”

His dad sounds hurt, offended, that Stiles has kept something like this from him. 

Stiles chews on his tongue, focussing on the sensation of teeth in flesh, detached from the actual act like it’s not him who’s doing it. 

“Hey Dad, my mistress and master asked me to join their pack to help end a feud between them and another pack. Don’t worry, I turned them down nicely. I’ll call after they’re finished fucking me. Lots of love, your whore son.” 

_“Stiles,”_ Chris hisses. 

Stiles sighs, shakes his head. 

“I know. Sorry.” 

“What’re their names?” His dad asks, voice soft like he’s afraid Stiles will run. He’s not wrong. 

“Sonya and David.” 

“How long were you— with them?” 

Stiles pushes his chair away from the table. He needs a smoke. 

“Stiles?”

“Two years. I was dating them for two years.” 

Stiles is out the backdoor, three voices calling his name. It doesn’t matter. He should never have involved any of them. It’s his fault. 

Just like Mandeep said. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter summary from Laini Taylor, Dreams of Gods & Monsters. I have not read it myself but this quote was especially apropos for the chapter. 
> 
> If you're not familiar with the Delmar Divide, I'd recommend reading up on it. Knowing about the Divide might help you understand the context of recent events in Saint Louis and some of the problems faced by people of color here. I can say that when I moved to Saint Louis, my white-suburbia teenage self became rapidly disillusioned with the problems faced by people of color in the US. The number of ads alone I saw talking about racial steering was unsettling.   
> My recent move to south city reminded me of this. Especially when I told my friends which ward I was moving into and basically all of them told me that it was a, quote, "Bad neighborhood." I knew what they meant. I live near the Lemp Brewery which makes the whole area smell like burning plastic at night. Some of my coworkers refuse to visit me and like to make jokes about how they're scared of my neighborhood. 
> 
> In other news:   
> The roommate just got up. He's apparently only a little hung over but he thinks this just cause enough to steal some of my coffee. Now that I'm done with the chapter and he's up, it's time to get ready for his stupid fucking sushi party. I fucking hate fish. Smells too much like dead people. Happy Saturday.


	25. Passive Aggressive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It echoes in my brain  
> I didn't mean it  
> pulses through my veins  
> I didn't mean it  
> I'm the one to blame  
> I didn't mean it

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, look. I did a thing. Sorry about the long pause but this story makes me feel as if my sanity is on less-than-shaky ground and I may have accidentally took time to recoup.

He walks, as mindless now as he’s been the past five years, flagrantly and purposely uncaring about what his actions might cause. Each step as thoughtlessly placed as the last. The trees are full of life but, for once, quiet. No birds, no cicadas, no crickets or dogs or frogs or wind whispering secrets like snakes hiss warnings.

Stiles finds himself in a gulch, surrounded by the bodies of fallen trees. He pauses. When he sits on one, it groans under his weight. Stiles pats its softly rotted back and lights a cigaret. 

_“We’re hosting a party next weekend and we’d love it if you could attend.”_

_She had smiled, the dark brown of her eyes not dark enough to hide the red._

_Stiles hadn’t planned on going until she’d turned down the flogger with a wave and a, “I like to be a little more hands-on than that.”_

_Something low down in his gut had tugged on his belly-button while he kneeled in the corner as he watched her spank Alexus._

Then there’d been David and David… it wasn’t easy to find men bigger than Stiles. Broader, thicker, taller, yes, but David had made Stiles feel small, fragile, when he sat on his lap. Shit, Stiles had felt like a log meeting an ax the first time David had fucked him. Not even Paul made him feel so utterly destroyed. 

_Stiles cried, pain-filled tears as silent as the rain outside._

_“I don’t think you can take it,” David had murmured, sliding his big hands over Stiles’ stomach._

_Stiles had shook his head, delirious._

_“I don’t think he cares, David,” Sonya had said, sharp nails in Stiles’ back. “Desperate little cock-whore.”_

_A blow to his asscheek. Stiles jerked, mouth open on a scream stuck somewhere in his chest._

_“Don’t know why he doesn’t give up…”_

_Stiles had glared at David, planted his hands on that big chest, and forced himself the rest of the way down._

_David groaned._

_“Maybe he’s too stubborn to admit it,” Sonya replied._

_“Maybe too desperate.”_

Stiles sits in the quiet, in the silent woods, and allows himself to wallow the same as he’s allowed himself for six years.

 

_“Hey, buttercup.”_

_Stiles huffs_ , _leans back on his hands._

_“Birch.”_

_Sabrina wrinkles her nose as she sits down next to him._

_“That’s not what I am.”_

_The wind ruffles through the tall grass around them like a man in front of the bus driver looking for loose change._

_The sky is soft, indigo, and the flowers that bloom around them are poisonously bright._

_“And I’m a buttercup?”_

_There’s an ant on Sabrina’s knee, slowly smelling its way on a path made by Stiles’ mouth._

_“You’re not anything.”_

_Stiles looks up at the sun as it slowly burns out like the cherry of a cigaret._

_“Not yet. Just a seed in fertile ground.”_

_Stiles shakes his head, the after-image of the sun across what he can see._

_“Everything is barren.”_

_Sabrina laughs, raises her willowy fingers up and waves them in front of his face._

_“Do you know how trees grow in places they’re seemingly not meant to be?”_

_Stiles shrugs._

_“Seeds fall off the tree, get carried away by animals. Eventually they fall off there too, sleep until the rain comes, and then—“_

_She raises her arms up above her head, fingers stretched wide. Up and up and up she reaches._

“Saplings.” 

_“Is that what I am?”_

_Sabrina lets her arms fall to her sides._

_“I don’t know. Everything’s a mess. In my head.”_

_The air is salty. Stiles digs his toes into the grass until they meet sand._

_“I thought I was for you the first time I saw you but I don’t know. I can hear it all, you know, but I can’t make it out.”_

_She stands and the horizon changes, rolls with her sway._

_“It’s like when a song you know really well comes on the radio and you’ve heard it so much, know it so well, that you hear but you can’t listen. The words blend in with the familiarity of the music so well that they become… inscrutable.”_

_“What are you for?” Stiles asks, voice parched and drifting._

_“Sycamore. That’s what my dad used to say; ‘what are you for, sycamore?’”_

_Stiles rocks in place, slowly sinking below the grass. He has to find a way to root himself or he’ll blow away. Carried by animals, tucked into their fur like secrets too big to see until he’s somewhere he doesn’t belong._

_“When he died, I bought a painting of that lone sycamore. You’ve gotta know the one. I’d stare at it for hours, crying.”_

_Stiles plants his hand on the ground. The world shifts like a teacup ride._

_“Mine is a brine, my soil.”_

_Stiles tries to be still but he can’t. The whole world is moving._

_“And you— you… you have to wake up.”_

_“Why?” Stiles asks, lifting his head. He watches her contort, twist her legs together and reach with closed hands towards the horizon._

_“I don’t know that.”_

_She closes her eyes._

_“You have to tell me what you know!” Stiles shouts as the ground embraces him, sure and steady. “You have to. You must.”_

_“I know,” She says. “I know one thing.”_

_“What is it?”_

_The soil is up to his shoulders, rising._

_“What? Sabrina, what?”_

_She twists her neck until her face is pointing skyward._

_“I know you will bloom in a shower of blood, buttercup.”_

_“No,” Stiles moans, soil up to his neck. “Oh, no. No.”_

_He takes one last breath as the soil falls into his eyes, lungs filling up with things not of the air._

“Hey,” A voice whispers in the dark. “Wake up.” 

Stiles gasps, dragging air into his lungs so fast it hurts. He lurches, trying to dig himself out, fingers clawing at what covers him. 

“Woah. It’s OK. You’re fine. Your fine.”

Hands touch him, pull it off. 

“Everything’s fine.” 

Arms around him, tugging. 

Stiles wheezes, tearing his eyes open. 

“Come on. Come back to me. It’s alright, darling.” 

He blinks until the gritty feeling of sleep is out, until he no longer tastes soil. Stiles slumps, resting his forehead against the neck in front of him. 

“Can you hear me?”

Stiles nods. Fifteen seconds of silence. 

“Will you come to bed then?” Chris asks, voice quiet. 

Stiles breathes in deep. 

“You still want me there? After everything?” he does not ask. 

“Sabrina. She awake?”

Chris swallows, looks away, shakes his head. 

“She was still acting as her own nightlight last I looked.” 

Stiles nods and pulls away from Chris, propping himself against the armrest of the couch. 

“Stiles—”

Stiles raises an eyebrow. Chris opens his mouth, closes it, breathes deeply. 

“Do you still— Are we—” Chris sighs. “Are you going to stay on the couch for the rest of the night?”

Stiles licks his lips, tasting purple and lipstick and salty dirt. It’s in his mind, he knows, but…

“Don’t have to go to bed if you want some,” Stiles murmurs, touching fingers to Chris’ thigh. 

Chris smiles, shifting where he’s crouched next to the couch. 

“While I wouldn’t turn down the opportunity, I’m not asking you to bed for s— _shit._ ” 

Stiles grins, rubbing circles into Chris’ crotch with slow fingers. He watches Chris’ eyes slide shut as red begins to bloom on his cheeks. 

“Your dad could— or Sabrina— at any moment.” 

Stiles leans over, kisses Chris softly, running his hands over Chris’ thighs. It’s an awkward position with Chris crouched and Stiles sideways on the couch. One that Stiles can fix. He shifts, scoots until he’s facing Chris, knees pressed to the outside of Chris’ knees. He kisses him again. 

“Stiles,” Chris warns. 

Stiles ignores it, ghosts lips over Chris’ bottom lip. It’s not really a kiss, not yet. At this point, it’s merely contact, a warning of what is to come. 

Chris moves in to kiss him and Stiles moves with, keeping it so their lips barely touch. Chris tries again and Stiles thwarts him again, a tiny smile on his face, a small smirk that tugs lightly at his lips. It happens again. This time with Stiles pretending like he’s going to allow the kiss, parting his lips and tilting his head. 

Chris breathes in deep, the sound of air whistling through his nose the only noise in the dark of the living room, plants his hands onthe couch next to Stiles’ legs, and pushes himself up. 

Stiles leans forwards, moves Chris’ shirt up with both hands and touches his mouth to Chris’ hip. Chris stills, hands loose at his sides, breathing even but loud. 

Wet, open mouthed, pseudo-kisses are what Stiles traces the skin over the waistband of Chris’ pants with. 

Stiles wraps his fingers around Chris’ hips and pulls. Chris comes easily, setting his knees on either side of Stiles. He loops arms across Stiles’ shoulders and stoops. This time, Stiles allows their lips to meet, hands sliding up Chris’ sides, slowly pushing his shirt off. With Chris’ help, the shirt ends up on the floor and Stiles presses his mouth to Chris’ chest, tasting the skin that covers his heart. 

“We really shouldn’t be doing this here,” Chris murmurs. 

The hand in Stiles’ hair and the way Chris arches when Stiles mouths at his nipple speak otherwise. 

 

He ends up calling an Imos and some random stranger before he gets the number right. 

“David here,” the voice on the phone says, just as Stiles remembers. Never “Dave-id,” but, “Dahv-id.” Stiles can’t help but smile as he exhales cigaret smoke. 

“Hey,” Stiles says, shifting so his legs dangle over the side of the roof. “It’s Stiles.” 

“Oh,” David returns softly. “Good morning.” 

Stiles does not need to be there to know the rustling he hears is David putting the phone on speaker and motioning Sonya over. 

“It’s Stiles.” 

“Oh, good morning, youngen!” Sonya chimes. “What’re you doing up so early?” 

Stiles closes his eyes, picturing her smiling face. 

“Before eight _and_ calling us,” David comments. 

“Must be big news.” 

“The biggest.” 

Stiles huffs. 

“Need to talk to you.” 

“You are, baby. What’s going on?” 

His feet kick out into air and Stiles watches them move, feeling smaller than pollen. 

“You need to stop.” 

“Stop what, child?” Sonya asks and Stiles knows she’s sitting in her spot at the head of the table, morning sunlight shining into their ridiculous solarium. 

“I don’t want to be a part of your pack.” 

David tuts and Stiles knows he’s doing that stupid pouty-face. 

“We know that’s not true, baby boy.” 

“I don’t!” Stiles snaps. 

“Hush. Why else would you keep trying out the suitors we send to you?” 

Stiles scratches at the soft wood of the roof, hating the way the morning birds sing, Chris’ phone pressed hard to his ear. 

“I didn’t consent to this. I don’t want it.” 

The line is quiet. Thirteen seconds. Stiles has no idea where his cigaret went. 

“You signed up for this the second the tires of your Jeep crossed into our land.” 

“We _will_ have you, Stiles.” 

Stiles hangs up, heart beating out a sonata. Sonya’s words echo like damnation in his head. He stands slowly, turns his back on the rising sun, and climbs back in his window. 

Chris stirs when Stiles slides into bed, eyes slitting open just enough that Stiles can see the glitter of sleep in them. 

“Where’d y’go?” 

Stiles shakes his head, kisses Chris, and wrap himself around the man. 

“Doesn’t matter. Here now.” 

Chris grunts, plants a sloppy kiss to the corner of Stiles’mouth, and goes back to sleep. 

Stiles does not join him. He lays there, waits, watches, on the look out for any cracks in this strange moment. It shouldn’t be peaceful. 

It shouldn’t be relaxing. 

It shouldn’t be anything good. 

 

Stiles is sitting in the dining room, book on the table in front of him. He’ s not reading, is simply staring out the window at the front lawn. Dad is in the basement giving Ceana a bath, Chris has a gun taken apart across old news papers at the other end of the table, and Sabrina is in the sitting room with her laptop. 

No one is talking but no one needs to. The tension in the house would drown them out anyway. Stiles stands, needing to move, and heads into the kitchen. 

It’s when he’s chugged half a glass of water that Chris follows him. 

Stiles leans against the counter, stares down into his glass. Nine seconds of silence. 

“Who did you call?”

Inhale through the nose, out the mouth. Circular. Closed. 

“Ghostbusters.” 

Chris sighs, takes a step towards Stiles, stills. 

“You called them, didn’t you?”

Stiles shakes his head but it’s not a no. 

“It doesn’t matter.” 

Chris tilts his head down, tucking his chin in. 

The sunlight catches in his hair, turns it a glowing red-yellow,. Stiles wants to bury his fingers in it, breath open-mouthed confessions into Chris’ hair as he fucks Stiles slowly, but surely, into oblivion. 

“Yes, it does. You _know_ it does.” 

There’s hurt in Chris’ expression. Something soft and disappointed. 

“You memorized their phone number.” Chris’ voice is the sound of that look; just as gentle and just as let down. 

“Memorized lots of numbers.” 

Chris shakes his head, hands down on his hips. 

“And how many of those are people who can hurt you?”

“All of them,” Stiles doesn’t say. “Including yours.” 

Instead, he sets his glass down, starts to walk out of the room. Al needs his medicine and to be fed. He can’t eat on his own anymore, can barely move. 

Chris calls to him but Stiles doesn’t listen, avoids looking at Sabrina where she sits on the couch, and takes the stairs two at a time. He’s not running away, he tells himself; there are things he has to do. 

 

His fur is rough, thin, yellowing where it should be white. He’s skinny, skinnier than he’s ever been. So much so his hip bones and spine jut out like rocks from dirt. 

Stiles smoothes his index finger from the top of Al’s head to his shoulders. His poor baby is asleep; the effort of eating having drained him. Now they both lie in bed while one or both of them struggles to breath. 

He’s going to die. 

“Hey you.” 

Stiles doesn’t look up, continues to pet his sick rat. 

Sabrina sits down on the bed next to him. 

“May I touch you?” she asks. 

Stiles clenches his jaw, wishing she would take, wishing she commanded instead. Wishing all sorts of things that would never happen. 

He nods. 

Her fingers dig into the hair on the back of his head, nails scratching at his scalp. 

“You shouldn’t force it,” She murmurs. “I know you want to be hurt.” 

Stiles closes his eyes, gently cupping both hands around Al’s tiny body. 

“Don’t hurt him just so he’ll hurt you back,” she whispers and Stiles shudders at the sensation of her breath on his ear, the tug of her fingers in his hair. “I know how much you like him.” 

Stiles bites hard on his tongue, breath forcing its way out of his mouth between his teeth. 

“You turn like a sunflower whenever he comes in the room. If you want pain…” She yanks hard on his hair, jerking his head back. Stiles gasps, squirms, hands going to the mattress to dig his fingers in, to root himself to something solid. “Ask for it like a good boy.” 

She lets go and Stiles whines, reaching for her. Sabrina shakes her head, picks up Al from his lap. 

“That’s not for me,” She says, cradling Al to her chest. “Talk to your man and stop acting like an idiot. I know you’re not one.” 

She sighs, plays with Al’s limp tail. 

“This whole thing vexes me.” 

She turns her back on him and leaves. 

Stiles lays there, heart racing, hard in his jeans, and _wants._ He knows she’s right. Knows it in a way that makes it seem ubiquitous, inescapable. 

He is, however, still a coward.  

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The tree that Sabrina talks about is not actually a sycamore but a cypress. You've maybe seen it and not even realized it. If you're not familiar with it google "The Lone Cypress."
> 
> The summary is a quote from Slackerbitch by Placebo.
> 
>  
> 
> Also: is anyone having trouble with the bookmark or subscribe setting with this story? Inquiring minds would like to know.


	26. One of a Kind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now I believe that lovers should be draped in flowers and laid entwined together on a bed of clover and left there to sleep, left there to dream of their happiness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to lie and say I've been busy but the reality is that this story is like excessively triggering to me and I didn't anticipate it taking such a large emotional tole on me when I started it. In other news, my temporary promotion at work has been made permanent. I'm excited about this on many levels.

Stiles has always liked to be outside at night. The dark of the sky, the limn of the moon, the way the trees seem quiet but the insects are loud has forever appealed to him. 

Tonight, he’s sitting on the walkway up to his dad’s house and waiting. The calm and quiet of the night is beyond him right now. Instead, he feels imagined specters, angry and possessive, in the folds of shadows just beyond the border. His mind screams at him that he should be hidden from view, cowering inside where he’ll be safe and unseen. He can’t reason with it, can’t talk to this frightened part of himself that it does not matter if he’s hidden from view or not, outside where the shadows can see or inside bathed in light, it will always find him like an insidious shadow of a dog, locked onto his scent. 

Right now, he has an electric fence, an invisible sense of security as ephemeral as autumn leaves, ready to fall and die, coat the ground in their corpses and create fertile ground for bigger things to grow in. 

Stiles smiles, amused by his own melodrama, and takes a drag of his cigaret. He’s been reading too much Hawthorne. Next he’ll start assigning prophecy and foreshadowing to the way the solitary streetlight at the end of the drive blinkers in and out. 

Stiles blows smoke in its direction just to watch the weak beams of light cut through it, showcasing how the breeze causes the smoke to purl and shuffle into shadows. He ashes onto his foot, follows little burnt flakes of tobacco as they move like snow around his toes. He feels cold, asleep, too still to be alive.

Headlights, sharp, yellow like dog’s teeth, slide into view. Stiles squints. The car’s breaks squeak as it comes to a stop behind Sabrina’s Tyrian purple sunfire. 

Stiles stands, tosses his cigaret onto the ground, and waits. 

The driver side door opens, closes. Stiles waits until he can see her, make out the stretch of her lips. 

He runs. 

She runs.

They crash in the middle, falling to the ground, rolling in leaves and dirt and grass. 

“Ohhhhh, sweetie,” she croons. “I missed you.” 

She shoves him down, cages his body and peppers his face and neck in kisses. 

Stiles tangles his fingers in her hair, curls his toes into the dirt, and basks like a bird in the first sun of spring. 

“So much,” she says. 

“Many,” Stiles grunts out before her lips cover his. 

It’s long, chaste, joyful. 

“Mac,” he sighs out and she laughs like finches taking flight, lays on top of him her whole body. 

They lie there, breathing. 

She whispers, tiny things, little nothings, against the skin of his neck, their thighs sliding together as she pets her hands down his arms, tangles their fingers together. 

“What’s going on?” She hisses. “How can I help?”

Stiles squeezes his eyes shut. It hurts. It always does. 

 

Sabrina and Mac, apparently, know a lot of the same people. It is seemingly a crime they didn’t know each other already. 

Stiles sits at the kitchen island and watches them talk while Ed and Wyn climb over them and the couch. He’s pleased, in a way, that they’ll have each other. 

A mug nudges his fingers, warm. Stiles wraps his hands around it, eyes still fixed on Sabrina and Mac in the adjoining living room. 

“Should I be worried?”

The words are whispered into his ear, make him shiver and look away from them. 

“Probably,” Stiles says, looking Chris in the eyes, adds, “not about that.” 

Chris smiles, crows feet crinkling. 

“I can’t compete with two beautiful women.” 

Stiles shakes his head, resists the urge to kiss him and tell him that there’s no competition. 

“You make my heart hurt. I adore you so much,” Stiles doesn’t say. 

Chris’ smile widens like he heard Stiles anyway. 

“I want to kiss you,” Chris admits. 

Stiles licks his lips, Sabrina and Mac’s voices drifting in the background like a comforting white noise. 

“But I saw you and her… 

Stiles grimaces, that feeling of contentment he hadn’t noticed splintering. 

“That wasn’t—”

Chris shakes his head. 

“I hate how this is going to sound. Stiles, I’m—”

Panicked, Stiles presses his fingers to Chris’ lips, eyes wide, heart thundering. Chris cups Stiles’ hand with both of his, kisses Stiles’ fingers, moves his hand so Stiles’ palm is tickled by beard. 

“I want your kisses to be for only me,” Chris murmurs. “I want to be the only one who gets to hold you like that.” 

Stiles cups Chris’ face with both hands, leans until his forehead rests against Chris’. He says nothing, simply closes his eyes and breathes as Chris shuffles closer, insinuating himself between Stiles’ legs. Stiles promises him nothing, gives no word that he cannot keep, thinks only of the emptiness, of the places he’ll inevitably no longer occupy. He thinks of Chris’ bed, his own bed, how cold it feels to lay down to sleep in solitude. 

 

 

“We can go for lunch on Wednesday. I know this place off Reavis Barracks that makes a pretty good Turkish.” 

Sabrina stretches her lips into a plump plumb smile. 

“I would love to. Does one-thirty work for you?”

Mac shrugs, picking up the small carry cage Al has been living in. 

“It might. Depends on when my noon class gets out. I can text you when it does?”

Sabrina nods. 

Stiles stands at the door, holding the larger cage containing Ed and Wyn, feeling like a misplaced door stop. 

“All right, ‘Brina. I’ll see you soon.” 

Mac waves with her free hand and joins Stiles at the door. 

They walk to her car in silence, situate the cages with an ease that only comes from mutual practice. When it’s done, Mac sighs, looks at Stiles with raised eyebrows. 

Stiles does nothing, only longs for a smoke. 

“You’d tell me if this were something major, right?”

Stiles can’t help but look down as his fingers twitch at his sides. 

He wants to grab, to pull her close and not let go. 

She touches his shoulder, an instance of warmth that feels cool to his hot skin. 

“Whatever this is, whatever has got you all knotted up? You don’t have to carry it alone.” 

Stiles shakes his head but he’s unsure, doesn’t know if the gesture is in disagreement or just a general denial. She leans in to kiss his cheek and Stiles shakes his head again, moves back. Mac frowns. 

“Can’t,” he says. 

She smiles, ruffles his hair. 

“You big sap.” 

Stiles huffs. 

He lights a cigaret, a flash in the dark, and watches her taillights disappear into the trees. 

 

When he manages to make it inside, Sabrina and his dad are talking in quiet tones, leaning into each other over the kitchen island. Stiles backs away from the kitchen slowly but they never show sign of having noticed him. He stands at the foot of the stairs, unsure if he could take the silence and solitude of his room without his rats in it. He knows Chris is there but…

Stiles decides to go back outside. 

 

 

Eight cigaret butts lay next to Stiles like a pile of stiff severed limbs, the ninth is still burning, perched between his lips. The bench located in front of the window on the porch is wooden, unforgiving, rocks gently with Stiles’ every move. 

He is watching clouds move in front of the moon, obscuring and uncovering his only source of light in an unhurried pace. The screen door opens, shuts. 

Someone sits down next to Stiles, arms wrap around him. 

Stiles slides sideways, eyes still fixed on the moon. 

“You should eat something,” Chris says quietly. 

Stiles thinks on Al, on how much effort it is to eat, on how pointless it is when one is close to death, and shakes his head. 

“Please?”

Stiles sighs. Ash falls from his cigaret onto Chris. Absently, Stiles brushes it off. 

“OK,” Chris whispers. “OK.” 

They sit in silence. Chris’ arms are strong where they hold him. 

Stiles feels like throwing up. 

They’re not enough. 

 

 

It’s seven in the morning and Stiles is watching fat bubble in a pan around thin strips of salty meat. It fizzes and pops, spits in retaliation. Stiles is sorry for it; sorry for its current state and what it could have been, the life that was lost in the name of breakfast. 

“What’re you thinking about?” Chris asks, arm bumping Stiles’ as he minds the eggs. 

“Ritualistic mass slaughter.” 

“Whuh—“ Chris’ mouth hangs open. 

Stiles pokes dead flesh with tongs pointedly. 

Chris laughs. 

Stiles’ heart beats like child’s feet running through the woods. 

“In the name of the morning ritual, I slay thee, bacon.” 

Stiles smiles, turns over one of the pieces. 

“May your sacrifice not be in vane.” 

 

It’s seven forty-five and Stiles is sitting on the patio, smoking, drinking coffee. He can hear his dad and Chris washing the dishes through the open window, birds in the trees calling out to one another. 

A phone rings. 

“Hello?”

Seven seconds of silence. 

“Who is this?”

Ceana barks facing south, her tail as on-alert as her ears. 

“I won’t. You can talk to me.” 

His dad whispers, “Who is it?” but if Chris answers, Stiles doesn’t hear. 

“I’ll take a message.” 

Five seconds. 

Stiles puts his cigaret out in the ashtray his dad tries to hide, pulls another out of the pack. The lighter snaps, flames jump, the back door opens. 

Barefoot, Chris’ jeans curl centimeters under his heal. There’s a patch of hair, light, sparse, on his big toe. Stiles can’t really see it in the morning light but he knows it’s there with the same sureness as he knows who is on the phone Chris sets down on the table in front of him. 

“What?”

“Is that any way to greet old lovers?” Sonya replies and Stiles can hear the teasing smile in her voice. 

“It’s one way,” Stiles says, trying not to forget that Chris is there. 

Sonya sighs. 

“What am I to do with you?”

Stiles swallows, remembering other times she’s said the same thing under different circumstances. 

“Mandeep’s fine, by the way. I thought you might want to know.” 

Stiles takes a long drag of his cigaret in lieu of responding. He doesn't know what to say to that; how he feels about it. 

“That was cute, what your man did to him. Except…” 

Stiles waits, eyes fixed on Chris’ phone. 

And waits. 

Fifty-sevens seconds pass with Stiles grinding his teeth. 

He closes his eyes, admits to himself that he’s lost this power play. 

“Except what?”

“It’s very distinctive, that arrow, that strain of wolfsbane.” 

Stiles can hear Chris shift next to him but refuses to look. 

“We’re impressed you managed to get an Argent.” 

“Very impressed,” David adds. 

“Or we would be if we didn’t know about what happened in Beacon Hills.” 

Stiles sighs, flicks his cigaret against the edge of the ashtray. 

“Is that all?”

“No.” 

Stiles waits. Seventeen seconds. 

“We’re willing to let you keep him, even with his sullied name, if you pledge yourself to us, our cause, our pack.” 

“We’re not unreasonable, baby boy. Let us take care of you.” 

Stiles clenches his hands into fists at that, hearing only the roar of his blood for an interminable moment. 

“No,” he says, jaw so tense his teeth throb in protest. 

“Don’t decide now. Think about it. It’s a good offer.” 

“You know where to find us when you make up your mind.” 

“I won’t.” 

Stiles hangs up on them, breathing heavy. 

Chris pockets his phone with careful movements, eyes on Stiles. 

Stiles looks away. 

He can’t. 

 

The sky is mostly white, thin whips of clouds so numerous that they change the color of the world. Stiles is quiet, unresponsive, where he lays in the lawn. Chris is sitting next to his head, silent as well. 

Stiles doesn’t know why he’s here. Right now, he is contributing nothing, providing nothing, but still Chris sits, fingers buried in the grass while Stiles gets ash all over himself. 

“You would tell me if I— if I wasn’t _providing_ something you need, right?”

Chris’ voice is soft, unsure. The kind of voice that belongs to late night confessions whispered with wet lips into dry sheets while the other is sleeping. 

Ash floats from Stiles’ cigaret, falls with surety right into his eye. It stings, hurts. His eyes water. 

He can’t answer that. 

What he wants to say and what is truth are two different things. 

Chris sighs. 

Stiles’ eyes continue to water. 

“I don’t know if I can do that, Stiles.” 

Stiles blinks, rubs at his eyes with the back of his hand. He doesn't know how to tell Chris. He has the words, he has the answer, but he can’t figure out how to get his mouth to work. His throat burns at its uselessness. 

“I don’t think I can…” 

Instead, Stiles reaches blindly, cigaret abandoned in the grass to burn out. 

Chris catches his hand. 

In the corner of his eye, Stiles sees him bow down over it, feels his lips touch Stiles’ knuckles. 

Silence. 

“This alone is more than I deserve,” Stiles thinks. 

He doesn’t say, “Having you here is all I need,” because he doesn't know— cannot possibly say if it’s the truth. 

In the absence of this knowledge, Stiles says, “You should leave. Take Sabrina with you.” 

The air vibrates as if a whip had cracked, sudden and deafening, right next to him. 

Chris stiffens, hand tightening around Stiles’. 

“No. I’m not leaving. I’m not giving up.” 

The, “on you,” is silent, loud, and terrifying. 

Stiles closes his eyes, rolls onto his side. 

With his face pressed into Chris’ hip, arm across his legs, Stiles tries not to shake. 

This he knows to be the truth: this is a death sentence for all of them. 

In a tree not far away, an owl alights from its perch, flies the circumference of his border as it hunts small animals in the detritus of the woods. 

“I won’t leave you,” Chris whispers in a fierce voice as he cradles the back of Stiles’ head. 

Stiles fears what he will do to him when he dies. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... I want you to keep in mind in this coming chapter that I am not, in fact, going to be that big of a dick. I'm planning on posting the next chapter really - really - soon but I want you all to know that it is not the end nor is it very close to the end. We still have miles to go before this shit is done but what's going to happen next chapter is needed for it.   
> I'd also warn to have something fluffy or nice to read after it because you will probably need it. 
> 
> Chapter summary comes from Coner Oberst.


	27. How To Be Dead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Every man must do two things alone; he must do his own believing and his own dying."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really want a nap.  
> I forgot to put on the chapter title initially but it's there now. Incidentally, it's also Snow Patrol and not Placebo. It seemed hilariously you appropriate to pass up a title like that.

“We should confront this head on. Talk to them,” Sabrina says to the table at large. “I’ve never known them to be unreasonable.” 

Stiles pushes his lasagna away with a frown, finding its red sauce and meat as unappetizing as Sabrina’s choice of dinner conversation. 

“You disagree?” his dad asks, setting his glass down with a dull thud. 

“It doesn’t,” Stiles pauses to lick his lips. “It doesn't work like that.” 

“The laws for… propositioning an emissary are clear here. They’re required to back off. Even hunters know that much,” Chris adds. 

Stiles bites his lip and breathes, three sets of eyes focussed on him. 

Thirteen seconds of silence. 

“Stiles?”

Stiles looks down at the table and wonders if he just… left, if he got as far away as he could if this would all just stop. 

“They don’t want me for an emissary.” 

His dad frowns, nonplussed, and Stiles already hurts from how much farther his father’s estimation of him will sink. 

“Then what do they want?”

Chris’ fingers bump his under the table. Stiles tries hard not to recoil. 

“Stiles?”

“A consort.” 

Stiles flinches at the sudden scrape of a chair. His eyes flick briefly towards his dad but cannot stay there. The clenched jaw, narrowed eyes, and lowered brow he sees briefly is enough to make him hurt. Stiles shuts out the sight and braces for the coming anger. 

Ten seconds pass in which Stiles wishes it were completely silent. 

He hears the heavy thud of his dad’s feet, harsh breathing (possibly his own but he cannot tell). 

A strong hand grabs his arm, jerks him out of his chair, fast and harsh. Arms wrap around him, enfold him into a familiar chest. 

Stiles may stop breathing. 

“That’s never going to happen, Stiles. I won’t let them.” 

His fingers clutch with all their puny strength onto his dad. 

He feels lost. Found. 

He cries.

He doesn’t want to know why. 

 “My sweet boy.” 

His knees give out. 

He falls to the ground and takes his dad with him. 

“I love you always.” 

He weeps quietly with as much understanding as a child in bed, terrified of the dark unknowns beneath him. 

 

 

“Hey, Stiles?”

Stiles hums but does not move. He feels… safe right now. Like this. With Chris pressed along his back and the blankets pulled high up on them. 

“I want— I want you to remember you’re not in this alone. You don’t have to fight this by yourself. I’m here. Your dad is here. Sabrina. We’re here for you.” 

Stiles does not respond. He presses closer instead, slides farther into the raccoon of blankets and interlocks his fingers with Chris’ where they rest over his stomach. 

Chris kisses the back of Stiles’ head as if it were a boon, a protective salve, and Stiles closes his eyes, aches. 

He wishes they had more time. 

 

 

Stiles uses the house phone this time. 

Standing at the garage door, cord stretched tight from next to the work bench, it rings twice. 

“Good morning, my boy,” Sonya chirps.

Stiles can feel his hackles rise just from that. They always knew how to rile him up. 

“I want to end this” 

“I’m sorry. I don’t.” 

“I turn them all down. I will accept no one from your pack.”

Sonya chuckles briefly. 

“You know it doesn’t work that way.” 

Stiles breathes in deep, digs with his free hand into his pocket for a cigaret. 

“Why can’t you leave me in peace?” His voice quiet, frail to his own ears. 

“Because I am not at peace, you selfish little boy,” Sonya hisses. “I’m fighting a _war._ There is no peace and there will be no peace until it’s over.” 

Stiles shakes his head, drops his cigarets. 

“I can’t win it for you. I’m not a fighter. I’m not— I just—”

“Don’t act so naive. There is nothing just about your kind and you know it.” 

“No,” Stiles says but he doesn’t know what he’s denying. He never seems to. He is one continuous denial of something undefined. 

“Look.” Sonya sighs. “I want this to end. You want it too. But it can’t until this war is over. I can wait. I can continue to send people to you and I will. This has been ongoing for generations. You could turn down a pack member once a week and I could just send another. There are three-hundred-and-eighty of them. Do you know how long that would take?”

Stiles is silent. Nine seconds. He does the math.

“Over seven years.” 

“That’s right,” She says softly, consolingly. “Do you think your man would put up with that? Do you think he’d have the patience to last seven years? Answer me honestly, Stiles. Do you really believe your relationship would persevere through _seven years_ of you trying out a new stranger every week?”

Stiles is silent. He knows it’s more damning than any response could be but he cannot make himself say anything. 

 

 

“We can’t stay here indefinitely,” Chris murmurs, voice carrying into the sitting room where Stiles stands, hiding in the dark.

“I know that,” Dad responds. “But what other options do we have?”

“Could take the fight to them?”

Dad laughs. It cuts through the air and slices right into Stiles’ guts. 

“Right. A retired cop, an ex-hunter, a child suffering from _severe_ PTSD, and a young woman who slept twenty-two of the last twenty-four hours. We’re quite a force to be reckoned with.”

Stiles bites his lip, tries to concentrate on the feeling of his fingernails digging into his palms instead of the voices. He would close his eyes but he knows it wouldn’t block them out. 

“I could call in reinforcements…” 

“That might be our only recourse. It’s just… I don’t know if Stiles could handle that. He hasn’t talked to them since—”

“I’m aware of that but I’d rather have him free and alive than the alternative.” 

“Me too,” Dad says and Stiles can hear how weary and tired he is. “I don’t want to lose him but—” He sighs. 

Stiles shifts on his feet, wonders how far he’d have to run to escape this; what measures he’d have to go through to escape himself. 

“You weren’t here after. You didn’t see him when it was at its worst. He— I don’t know how well he’d take it and I don’t want him to backslide. Not now.” 

Stiles breathes in deep, counts to five twice, and leaves the room. He doesn’t know where he’s going; only thinks of getting away and ending this 

 

 

 

He finds himself in a familiar clearing, wind brushing at his face as if to gentle him, stop him. He sits beneath a sapling no older than him. The sky turns from clear to blue to orange, pink, red as the sun sets. 

Stiles lays down, curling his body around the slim trunk of the tree. 

The border, so far from him, a distant pressure. Inside, he can feel the lives that matter most to him. 

Closing his eyes, he concentrates, turning his wish for them to be safe into a belief that they cannot leave there, will not cross the border into places he cannot protect. 

The sun has set entirely by the time his senses let him know they try to cross. 

He begins to sob, heart hammering in time to their attempts to leave. Briefly, he imagines he can hear Chris calling to him across the space between them. 

Stiles continues to wait. 

They’ll come, he knows, like indelible blotches of ink on his very soul. He knows they’ll come. 

 

 

It gets cold while he waits. The wind dies off as if it’s given up on him. The moon is a bright constant presence. He still feels alone. The trees are silent without the wind. 

Night passes in shivers and shakes and the morning comes late. There is no insect noise to signal its coming but Stiles knows the date has changed as surely as he knows he will change too. 

This is when they come on sneaking paws like silent, insidious fog. They circle him slowly, carefully. 

Stiles sits up stiffly, leans against the sapling, and lights his last cigaret. 

He’s strangely calm, empty, as if his insides were filled with void, as if he’s already left his body behind. 

This is when she steps into the clearing, smiling as her auburn hair shifts around her. 

Stiles smiles back, amused. David is close behind her, tall and thick with his bangs curling into his face. He used to welcome them with open arms and spread legs. 

“I can’t help but feel we’re getting mixed signals here,” Sonya calls across the space between them. 

“I’m sorry you feel that way.” 

He means it. He really does. He’s sorry for a lot of things he’s done. 

“Come on. Join us. Together, we can end this war.” 

Stiles shakes his head as he bends his knee, back pressed tight against the bark behind him. 

“You knew what I was the moment you met me, didn’t you?”

It’s not that he feels hopeless when he says the words so much as resigned. 

“Of course we did. It’s why we knew we had to have you.” 

Sonya nods at David’s words. 

“Your kind are so rare now. There’s hardly any of you left here.” 

Stiles shakes his head, takes a drag of his cigaret, and stands. 

“If you know so much about us then how could you possibly think I would say yes?”

There’s a flash ofmovement behind them. Stiles catches but a glimpse of a body but he knows who it is. It hurts just a little bit, to see him here. One more pang of guilt on his already insurmountable pile. 

Mandeep. 

“Others have before.” 

“No,” Stiles says, calm, and shakes his head. He doesn’t need a history book to know that’s not true; he can feel it right down to his bones. 

“You will say yes eventually,” David warns. 

Simply put, “No.” 

“Don’t be so unreasonable. This is bigger than you are.” 

“No.” 

Sonya throws her hands into the air and starts to pace. Stiles finishes his cigaret. It won’t be too much longer now. He can feel it. 

“You two never were good at hearing no. Didn’t think you’d go this far though.” 

Stiles sags a little, feeling a tension he didn’t realize was there ease away. 

“You,” Sonya hisses. “This is your doing isn’t it?”

He stops next to Stiles, hands in his pockets. 

“You OK, kiddo?”

Stiles shrugs. 

“Rarely.” 

Paul smiles, bumps his shoulder into Stiles. 

“If he won’t be ours then he won’t be yours.” 

Paul shrugs. 

“I know what he’s about. The real question is do you?”

David frowns. Distantly, Stiles feels a renewed effort against his borders. Even if they got out now it would change nothing. 

Sonya shakes her head, making a small flicking motion with her hand. 

“You don’t get him.” 

Stiles hears feet running before he sees them. In the time it takes him to turn his head, Paul has shoved him out of the way and Mandeep is already barreling into him. 

The fight doesn’t last long. Merely the ten seconds it takes for Stiles to right himself and begin to stand before Mandeep’s body is hurled into the copse of trees around them. 

Paul turns to him, the moon beginning to set behind the trees, breathing heavy as his hands drip blood onto the earth below. 

Stiles swallows, throat dry, and tries not to think of those hands and how they’d feel on his body. 

“Why?” Stiles breathes out into the early morning air. 

Paul smiles, teeth glinting. 

“Because I like to fight and I like to fuck and you’re good. So very good.” 

The air leaves Stiles’ lungs in one vicious moment of surprise. 

“No,” Stiles hisses. And again louder when David runs at Paul, claws out and half turned already. “No!” 

He sees enough to know Paul dodges, retaliates, and shifts enough for claws and fangs. 

A hand wraps around his throat, an arm snags him across the chest. 

Mandeep whispers, “I missed you, baby,” with his body pressed against Stiles’ back. He drags Stiles across the clearing to Sonya, Stiles kicking and clawing at him the whole way. 

Stiles stumbles, falls to his knees at her feet, heart thudding in time to the pulse of his border and the hands that still beat against it. 

“This is your last chance, Stiles. Be ours,” She says, kneels next to him. “And you’ll never have to worry about anything again.” 

Stiles smiles, weirdly reminded of Scar’s speech to the hyenas in The Lion King, and laughs. 

“Either way,” he says, digs his fingers like roots into the soil. “It’s the same. 

“Then why not?” She asks, cups his face in a mockery of tenderness. 

For a moment, his eyes mislead him and he sees Lydia. Beautiful, haunted Lydia in front of him. Stiles sighs, smiles at her, and wishes he had the words and time to apologize; to beg forgiveness and weep at her feet for all the terrible things that happened to her. 

“I can’t.” 

Lydia smiles as if she understands and leans in. Stiles closes his eyes, a laugh caught in his throat. 

“Then you die.” 

It’s not a laugh in his throat but her fingers, squeezing and squeezing until he pops like warm champagne, frothing and bubbling down his neck. 

His next breath is garbled, wet. He knows he’s drowning now even as he feels Sabrina reach inside of herself and pull that piece of himself he left her out. 

Stiles jerks. It feels like a gust of wind, strong and unstoppable, pushes him forward. 

He opens his eyes as he hits the ground, the blood in them mixing with the blue light of the moon turns everything a dark lilac. 

He coughs but it doesn’t get past where his neck used to be. 

Stiles’ vision brightens as the sun finally breaks into the sky, orange and strawberry pink. 

He tries to stand, to walk, but his body won’t cooperate. Instead, he flops and writhes, moving across the ground and leaving a slug’s trail of himself behind. 

A foot away from the sapling, the percussion finally hits. Bodies fall with wet plops like over-ripe fruit all around him. Stiles pulls himself the rest of the way there using the trunk of the sapling, drags himself up to lean against it. 

When he looks down, the ground is glowing all around him, bright, and orange-white. 

Stiles huffs, tries to say, “How fucking circular,” but his mouth won’t work. 

Everything throbs.

His vision blurs, doubles. He’s not so much as wheezing anymore.

He digs his fingers into the earth, feels the pulse of the world around him, slow and unshakable. Stiles can feel himself shedding his human skin, can feel his very fucking soul leaving him to coil like a snake in the grass. Cold and silent.

There’s the distant sound of feet pounding the forest floor but he knows they won’t make it in time. Stiles isn’t sure he’s sorry about that.

He hopes they’ll forgive him anyway.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Summary from Martin Luther. 
> 
> This is not the end. I'm not that much of a dick probably. 
> 
>  
> 
> Next up: Spin Cycle.


	28. Spin Cycle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drag him out your window  
> Dragging out the dead  
> Singing I miss you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I meant to post this earlier but I went to a Halloween party instead. Hope y'all had a great Halloween. I know I could have had a better one. Think of this as your trick or treat from me.
> 
>  
> 
> Side note: The Placebo section has ended. There will be a slightly different theme for the chapter titles from here on out.

_He’s running. Not for his life but for another._

_His lungs ache, his legs throb as they pound the forest floor. There are people running with him, some he knows and others he doesn’t. It’s immaterial. All that matters is he gets here. He has to. If he doesn’t, someone will die._

_But his lungs won’t cooperate. He’s barely wheezing, can’t draw enough air to do so._

_They’re almost there. Almost. He pushes himself harder, forces himself to move faster—_

 

Scott sits up with a jolt, panting so hard each breath whistles as it enters him and squeaks as it leaves. Covered in sweat, he feels as if he just ran thirty miles. 

“Scott?”

He wheezes in the dark of the room, eyes unfocused.

“Hey. It was just a dream. Everything’s alright.” 

Hands touch him, run over his back. Scott shakes his head, opens his mouth to respond. 

His phone cuts him off. 

When he answers, Lydia is crying. 

“Scott,” she moans, voice hoarse as if she’s been screaming for hours. “Scott, it’s— Oh god, _Stiles._ I don’t— he’s. Scott, god.” 

“Lydia. Lydia, calm down. It’s OK. Tell me what’s going on?”

Kira’s eyes shine in the dark, reflective and piercing as Scott slumps, listening to Lydia’s words. 

“I felt it. I felt him— He’s dead. Scott, he’s—”

She keeps talking but it comes through garbled and tinny like that time Stiles built walkie-talkies out of Chef Boyardee cans and spare CB radio parts he stole from the station. 

“I don’t know what happened but I felt it like I did with Al— with— _Scott._ ”

“Everything is going to be fine. We— come over,” Scott says robotically. He knows his role in this, has for a very long time. “We’ll figure this out together.” 

 

Scott ends up sending a mass text because calling everyone would be a waste of time. He has no answers yet; he knows nothing beyond what Lydia said but he plans to find out. He just hopes— he just hopes that she’s wrong; that it was all just a terrible nightmare of hers that was a little too real. 

For the first time in years, Scott dials Stiles’ number. 

It goes directly to voicemail. It doesn’t ring once before Stiles’ recorded message picks up. 

“You know who you called. Leave a message.”

Scott hangs up, dials again, wondering in a strangely detached way if he does, in fact, know who he called. He tries twice more with the same results before he gives up and calls Stiles’ dad. 

He picks up on the third ring. 

“Scott?” His voice sounds weird, unfamiliar. 

“Hey, Mister Stilinski. I got a call from Lydia and—”

“I can’t. I can’t. I’m sorry. I’ve got to— I’ve got to find him. I can’t. Call Chris. I can’t—”

The line disconnects. Scott stands there in the middle of his room, staring at his phone, frowning. 

Heart racing, Scott calls Chris Argent but he knows already the answer to his question if Mister Argent is involved.

Stiles is dead. 

“You need to come,” is all Mister Argent says, voice thick with something Scott cannot name. “Stiles is— you need to come.” 

In the background, Scott can hear yelling. He can just make out Stiles’ dad’s voice shouting, “Where is he? Where is my son!” and another voice he doesn’t recognize talking back too quietly for Scott to understand the words. 

“Mister Argent, what’s—”

“I can’t— We have to look. You need to get here. I’ll— Let me know if you need— I have to go. I’m sorry. I’ve got to find him.” 

Once again, the line disconnects. 

Scott curls his toes into the carpet under his feet, a sinking sensation in his gut telling him the absolute worst has happened. 

He knows, without a doubt, that something terrible has befallen Stiles. It’s always death that accompanies an Argent when they come to town.

“Scott,” Kira calls from the doorway to their room. 

Scott nods. 

“You need to get dressed.”

He does. 

 

 

There are a lot of things involved in getting to Saint Louis that Scott would rather skip. He wants to be on the way already, there already, but he can’t. There’s school and work and family and the pack and he can’t just leave. 

 

All Scott has to say is, “It’s Stiles,” before Derek is on the phone buying tickets. Scott stands there and listens for a little while to the irregular beat of Derek’s heart. He doesn’t know what Derek is feeling but he has his suspicions. He’d always thought maybe— it doesn’t matter now. 

 

His mom can’t get off work but she listens to him cry for ten minutes on the phone and promises she’ll do what she can. 

 

He calls his work while he’s packing, tells them his brother has gone missing and they say he can take a leave of absence. He’s grateful for it. Really, he is, but they’re understanding attitude reminds him too much of Deaton. It makes him cautious around them. 

 

Not everyone is willing and able to drop everything. He doesn’t begrudge them this. It ends up being only the ones who knew Stiles that go. Lydia, Kira, Derek, and himself board a flight to Dallas. They spend six hours sitting on the floor across from the gate that’ll take them from Dallas to Saint louis because of weather delays. Apparently there’s a major storm going on in Saint Louis and all planes are grounded going to or coming from there.

 

Scott spends the time sending emails to his professors, explaining to them over and over that his brother is gone, his brother is missing, his brother needs him. His brother. He thinks, only briefly, while emailing his animal behavior professor, about Malia. He wonders if he should try to reach her. He wonders if she’d even come. 

 

Kira jitters back and forth, leaves to buy coffee, comes back red faced, hands shaking and empty. 

 

Derek does nothing but sit and stare at the counter across the way from them, interminably silent as they wait for nature and technology to come to an agreement. 

 

Lydia spends the time her phone speaking rapid and angry French. 

When the flight finally leaves the attendant has to force her to hang up. Lydia sits, silent, after that, and taps her long red nails on the arm of her chair, eyes wide and shining. 

 

 

Two hours later, Scott stands in the pick up section of the airport and breathes his first breath of Missouri air as rain falls in buckets from the dark sky. It smells like burning plastic here, like ash and silt and sumac. 

Something about it is unsettling and makes parts of him want to hide. 

“He’s here,” Derek says into the cacophony of rain and travelers, eyes fixed on a red SUV pulling through the traffic. 

It’s the first thing Derek has said since making the reservations. Scott wonders if Derek meant Stiles. If that’s the reason why all of these scents seem dead to him. 

 

Mister Argent drives carefully, slowly, through the storm. 

No one speaks. 

Sitting in the front passenger seat, Scott breathes for the first time in years Stiles’ scent. 

It makes his heart pound and his breathes slow and deep. It feels like the first breath of fresh air he’s had in a long time. As if he’s been having an asthma attack and didn’t realize it, dizzy and red in the face from an unexpected amount of oxygen. 

They drive for nearly an hour and a half to reach Stiles’ house. 

The rain means Scott sees little of this new place aside from flooded streets and stalled or crashed cars. It seems appropriate in a way, Scott thinks as they wind through curved roads with less and less buildings and more and more trees. Apropos to his reason for being here. 

He does not wonder at how much Mister Argent’s car smells of Stiles and rats and wolfsbane. 

This, also, seems appropriate. 

 

The house is nice, Scott thinks as he stands in a small sitting room. Smaller than their place in Beacon Hills but somehow still roomier. Scott leans against a short bookshelf stuffed to the brim and reeking of Stiles. And his dad and Mister Argent and someone else as well as a dog. 

The dog is named Ceana and she spends her time whining and pacing by the backdoor, ears flat and tail down. Her movements stir up the air, waft old anxiety, grief, and dog fur into Scott’s face. 

“By the time we got there,” Stiles’ dad says, voice low, uneven. “He was gone and the others— they were…” 

“Sonya and David,” Mister Argent cuts in, jaw tight, body tense. “Dropped dead, near as I can tell, of nothing. Paul,” Mister Argent spits the name as if it were a curse, damnation. “Was unconscious and s-Stiles was missing.” 

Scott flinches at Mister Agent’s tone. He’d forgotten how intimidating the man could be.

Lydia shakes her head, eyes locked on the window. 

“He’s not missing,” she says, quiet. “He’s gone.”

Mister Argent radiates anger, clenching his hands into fists until the air is layered with the dull scent of fresh blood. 

“There was no— _he wasn’t there._ ”

“I felt it,” she responds, voice gaining strength. “It wasn’t quick. It was slow and painful and he was _relieved._ ”

No one says anything, hearts beating in syncopated horror. Lydia breathes heavy, stares Mister Argent down. 

Swiftly, vibrating in anger, Mister Argent leaves, slamming the front door so hard a picture hung near it falls off the wall. 

The frame shatters over the sounds of the storm raging on outside. 

“That was…” Stiles’ dad sighs, broadcasting how tired he truly is with every move. “A very cruel thing to say.” 

Lydia looks down, contrite. Stiles’ dad excuses himself and follows Mister Argent outside. 

Whatever happens out there, the storm is too loud for Scott to hear. 

 

 

The two men are gone for hours. The four of them left to drift from room to room, settle in different places. 

Derek stands at the kitchen window, eyes fixed at some middle distance in the rain. Kira sits on the couch in the sitting room, head buried in her arms. Lydia is in the living room, sitting on the floor in front of another bookshelf, a stack next to her slowly growing as she sorts through them and Scott— 

Scott is standing in Stiles’ room, staring at the hand-painted messages on the wall. 

The whole house would be pleasant, peaceful, under different circumstances. It’s a good place, he can tell, to grieve, rest, get better. He’s glad Stiles’ dad took him here even if he is sad Stiles had to leave. 

Moving slow, Scott sits down at the foot of Stiles’ bed and breathes in deep. 

There’s something.. off, though, about Stiles’ scent that he can’t blame solely on time. 

Scott twists, flops, buries his face into Stiles’ unmade bedsheets. It’s not the rats or the wolfsbane or even the cigaret smoke, it’s… 

_Argent._

It’s Mister Argent’s scent. His scent is mixed too thoroughly with Mister Argent’s. Scott inhales deep and knows, finally understands, Mister Argent being here and why he’s acting the way he is. 

Scott closes his eyes and feels so very sorry; he knows what it’s like to lose someone like that, how it completely ruins and consumes. He lays there for a long time, breathing in their scents, and aching in sympathy and in understanding. 

 

 

Scott wakes to the sounds of rain, quiet voices, and weeping. 

“He can’t be,” someone hisses. “I can’t lose him.” 

“I know,” the other voice whispers. “I know, son.” 

Scott lays there in the dark of Stiles’ room and listens to the sounds of a man grieve a terrible loss, and tries not to cry himself. It’s moments like this where he misses _her_ the most. He knows her presence would help him, would assuage some of the pain that that man is feeling. Scott knows in his very bones that she could make him feel better too. She always could. 

“I can’t… Sheriff, I can’t.”

Scott falls back asleep, lulled by rhythmic sobbing into an unrestful sleep.

 

 

Scott wakes up with the sun, his internal clock still set to Pacific time. 

There are arms around him and, for a moment, he thinks they belong to someone else. Someone who smells of mountain ash, cigarets, rats, and anxiety. Someone who fidgets too much in his sleep and mumbles, with spit shiny lips, nonsensical things. 

He almost tells him to let go, that he’s spooning again before his brain catches up to the other scents there too. The steel and smolder scent of fox. Kira. 

Quietly, he extracts himself from her grip and makes his way downstairs. 

Most everyone is still asleep, tossing and turning and snoring their anxiety into the sheets. 

Scott pours himself a glass of milk when he gets to the kitchen, stands by the sink, drinking it while he watches the sun rise farther into the sky. 

It’s so peaceful here he almost can’t believe something so awful happened. 

Then he sees a flash of red through the trees followed by a stripe of pale flesh. Recognition hits him and he's off like a shot, abandoning his milk on the counter and leaving out the back door. 

He wants to shout, to call out and make sure everything’s OK but he can’t. Someone might hear, might be watching. 

Scott waits until he’s at the gate, until his fingers wrap around the latch and flip it up. 

“Are you alright? _Are you OK?_ ” he hisses. 

Lydia looks up with wide, watery eyes, nods, then shakes her head. 

“I found it. I found where— I just woke up and I was _there_ , Scott—”

She shakes as he ushers her through the gate and across the lawn, Ceana having followed him out, circles them, driving them back towards the house, whining. 

“I was dreaming I was sleeping with him. That I laid down with him and held him and I woke up in a field spooning this tree. There was so much,” Lydia pauses, breathes through her teeth, air hissing. Scott guides her into the lawn chair on the patio. “It was everywhere.”

Her feet are bare, muddy. Lydia smells of strange woods and fear and the subtle tang of old blood. She shivers. 

“Stay right here,” Scott says, going for calming. “I’ll be right back, OK?”

He cups her face and turns her towards him when she doesn’t respond.

“OK?” he asks again. 

Lydia nods, breathes shakily. 

Quickly, Scott hurries inside to grab his shoes. He’s got them in hand and is heading back through the house when a voice stops him. 

“You find something?”

Scott tells, knowing what he does, “Lydia. She slept-walked somewhere. She says it’s where—”

Mister Argent nods, stands from the sitting room couch. 

“I can take you there.” 

Scott breathes deep, returns Chris’ nod but does not say he’s sorry. He knows it won’t help. 

 

Before they leave, Scott spends ten minutes cleaning off Lydia’s feet with the garden hose, dries them with the dish towel he found hanging by the sink. Chris appears when he’s done with Lydia’s sneakers and pair of socks in hand. He says nothing, just breathes and waits patiently for Scott and Lydia to be ready. 

 

 

 

“Sonya was over there.” 

Mister Argent’s voice is still quiet, even now as he stands twenty feet away in the middle of a clearing. 

“David was there.” 

Scott shifts from foot to foot, his shoulders even with Derek’s as they both stand at the edge of the trees. He doesn’t want to step forward. There’s a familiar dread on the back of his tongue that tells him no farther, this is where he doesn’t belong. 

“Paul,” and again the name is spit out, “was there.” 

Kira paces the edge of the trees, barely in Scott’s line of sight. She, too, must feel it. 

“And Stiles was— Stiles was probably here.” 

Mister Argent stands three feet from a tree, barely no longer a sapling with his hand outstretches as if waiting for someone to take it. 

“Sabrina says she felt him and then— nothing.” 

“Who,” Scott pauses to clear the squeak from his voice. “Who’s Sabrina?”

Mister Argent smiles and it’s grim, bitter. 

“You’ll meet her. She had somethings she had to do now that— after what happened.” 

Scott nods as Kira stops on the other side of the clearing. He can see how tense she is from here. 

 

 

Scott is sitting on the front porch. He needs some air. The house is heady with the smell of grief and salt and he can’t take it. 

The front porch is barely better. It smells like smoke and Stiles and Mister Argent but it’s an improvement over being in there. With him. 

There’s a car coming up the road. It’s purple and streamlined and it makes Scott itch. It parks behind Mister Argent’s SUV and two women climb out. 

That’s when the front door opens and Scott can tell it’s him. Mister Argent. _Chris._ Stiles’… something.

One of the women, the one with dark hair, her face crumples, eyes water, and she runs. Scott tenses.

It’s not what he expects. 

She throws her arms around Chris’ neck and starts to cry hard, painful tears. 

“I’m so sorry,” she says. “I should have— Al. Chris. Al is— and I didn’t even get to— he won’t-”

“Shhhh,” Chris soothes. “It’s OK, Mac.” 

“No,” she sobs. “It’s not! Al is dead and Stiles isn’t gonna be able to bury him!”

Scott watches as Chris bundles her close, rubs her back. 

“Paul said I shouldn’t distract him but— it was Al, Chris. Stiles loved him and now he can’t put him to rest.” 

Chris stiffens, a hard shine comes to his eyes, but the woman, Mac, doesn’t seem to notice or care. 

“He’s my best friend and I didn’t tell him…”

Scott looks away from the sight of the two of them, from those words, his eyes landing on the woman with purple hair who stands perfectly still at the edge of the lawn. There’s something about her that makes the muscles in Scott’s back itch. 

 

 

 

It’s two in the morning and Scott is walking carefully through the woods, following the trail of a scent he knows well. 

He yawns then shivers. It’s already much colder than it was the day he first came. The wind blows in strong gusts that nearly obliterate the scent trail he’s following. Between that and the dim light of a waning moon, Scott would have lost the trail completely if he didn’t know where it was going anyway. 

It amuses Scott, in a sort of distant way, that Stiles is yet again the reason he’s wandering through the woods in the middle of the night. The only difference is that Stiles isn’t right next to him, talking a mile a minute to fill the quiet susurrus of the woods. For the first time in a while, it’s unsettling being in the forest without Stiles by his side. 

Scott pauses at the edge of the tree line, hesitates, as Lydia crouches next to that same tree. He watches briefly as she croons Stiles’ name softly, melodically. 

This is when she goes still and the forest becomes deathly silent. She breathes in a deep, hard gasp.

“No,” Lydia shakes her head, eyes widening. “No. No. No, no no no no nonononononoooooo.”

She starts to chant that one word, as she claws at the earth. 

Scott falters, unable to ignore that sense from his hindbrain that says he should go no farther. 

“No no no no no no no nonnnnnoooooo.” 

Lydia grunts. He hears one of her press-ons snap off. She screams quietly to herself. 

“Hold on. No. I’ve got you. I— no. No. Nonononononono.” 

Scott takes a large breath, steadies himself, and pushes through that feeling that shouts No Trespassing. 

A flock of birds not far off begin to screech as they take flight from the trees and head North. He can’t do nothing. He can’t stay where he’s comfortable. 

Stiles needs him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Summary from A Wolf at the Door by Radiohead. 
> 
> I don't know if I'm particularly happy with this chapter but it's what I'm going with so yeah.
> 
> Originally I had planned to make Rinse Cycle and then make Spin after it under a separate thing but then I thought that might make it more difficult for people get updated that there was another chapter.


	29. Mysterons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I can see the pictures on the floor Sketches of what was there before… Fooled by the notion that the sums don’t add up at all  
> Inside your pretending Crimes have been swept aside somewhere they can forget

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, after that brilliant cake topper to my already cock-up week, here is the actual chapter.  
> One incident of note is that I nearly lost all of the following chapters I've written because my rat, Darren, decided he REALLY wanted to try some of my coffee because it's obvi that the only reason I'd keep him away from a delicious, delicious beverage is because it's farrr superior to any other. So he snuck up onto the kitchen table and knocked over my coffee mug in his haste to taste the forbidden.  
> Unfortunately my laptop, my notebooks, and my phone were all on the table. Luckily the only real consequences to this were that I had to let the notebook dry out a little bit and Darren had to take a bath. Which he hates. He was super pissed at me. Like to the point where bribing him with raisins and tummy rubs would not appease him. He just sat on the edge of the coffee table with his ears back and glared at me for a very long time.  
> It could have been soooo much worse though. He's very lucky the coffee was room temperature and only half full.
> 
> Now, if you'll excuse me. I'm sitting outside of Kaldi's enjoying a rosemarry latte and the slow set of the sun on this lovely fall day.

There’s dirt under his nails. Embedded so deep it looks like a black line between the pink of his finger and the white of his nail. There’s dirt everywhere. It’s on his hands, arms, knees, in his hair and up his nose. It reminds Scott of the time he and Stiles went grave digging. 

Except. 

Except this is different. This is a whole ‘nother league of weird. 

Stiles’ dad leans against the kitchen island, hands rubbing at his face as his heart and lungs work arrhythmically. 

“Are you sure?”

Lydia nods, rubbing her bare, muddy, feet on the welcome matt by the back door. It's a fuzzy soft yellow and her and Scott have covered it in a complementary shade of mud. 

“I know what I saw.” 

Chris stands abruptly from his seat at the kitchen table. The chair screeches. Scott winces at the noise. 

He watches as the purple haired lady— Sabrina— reaches out, pauses with her hand inches from Chris’ arm as if afraid to touch him. 

“Chris—”

“Don’t. Sabrina. I’ve got to— I have to.” 

She rolls her bottom lip into her mouth, frowning, as she makes eye contact with him. 

“OK, but,” she stands as well. “Not alone?”

A muscle twitches in Chris’ jaw.

“Stiles wouldn’t want you to alone. You know that.” 

Chris breathes in a shaky breath, nods. 

“I’ll come too,” Derek cuts in and stands too. Scott wonders if they’re taking Frodo to Mordor and not taking a short walk through the woods with how everyone is acting. 

Scott already knows he’s going back with them wether he wants to or not so maybe. 

“Mac?” Sabrina asks. 

Mac shakes her head, sniffles. 

“Paul said he didn’t want me to go to that place. He said—”

“ _Who gives a shit what that pervert said.”_ Chris hisses. 

Scott is startled by such a strong reaction. 

“Chris!”

“No,” Mac says, smiles a watery little expression. “It’s alright, Mister S.” 

“It’s not alright. Paul lost him, too.” 

Chris laughs, hard, hands balling into fists. 

“You’ve got to be kidding me. He lost _nothing._ He won a fucking _war_ because of S— Because of this!” 

Silence rings across the room. No one moves as if afraid to. 

“I’m going now. Screw _Paul._ ” 

The kitchen door slams behind him. 

Mac makes this strangled noise, some strange version of a smile twisting her features. 

“What’s so funny?” Derek asks. Scott can hear his agitation in Derek’s heartbeat and words. 

“If—” Mac snickers. “If Stiles were here he’d say he already has.” 

She starts to laugh. It peels out of her in seemingly painful bursts. 

Scott stares on, horrified. At what? He could easily say everything. 

 

“This is… a lot creepier than I thought it would be,” Sabrina remarks. 

Scott has to agree even if he has seen it already. 

Displaced earth webs its way out from the tree like the way Scott’s veins blacken when he takes on another’s pain. The sky has turned dark and rain falls in pathetic fits over their little party as they stand, spectators to the thing in the trench he and Lydia dug around the tree. 

“I think it’s a diamond back,” Derek responds, voice light, oddly humorous. 

“Does it really matter what kind it is?” Kira asks. 

Derek shrugs. 

The snake convulses, jaws hinged wide open as it continues to swallow its own tail. 

Chris is kneeling next to the thing as he has been since they arrived. 

Scott still feels uncomfortable here, as if this is a place he should not be. He almost wishes he’d stayed behind with Mac. 

“What does it mean?” Stiles dad asks, voice hard, shoulders tense where he stands by Sabrina. 

Chris takes in a deep breath, lets it out slowly. It barely shakes. 

“Let’s find out,” he says and reaches out. 

Derek barely manages to shout, “Don’t!” before Chris’ hand is on the torso of the thing. 

Scott does not breath. 

The snake shivers as if to press up into Chris’ palm. His mouth drops open. Chris breathes hard and— briefly— his eyes turn a sort of an orange. No. It’s more as if they blush a slightly yellowed red. The rain stops as Scott watches Chris glow dimly. 

Then he falls back on his ass, laughing. 

“ _Goddamnit, Stiles_ ,” he wheezes in between laughs. “ _Jesus._ ”

“Chris,” Stiles’ dad says, voice hopefull. 

Sabrina huffs as Chris lays down, covering his face as he continues to laugh, body jerking in the dirt and leaves around him as he does. Scott is understandably perturbed. 

Sabrina strides forward and crouches next to the tree. Scott doesn’t dare move at this point, still standing uneasily next to Derek. Sabrina reaches out and—

The snake butts its head against her palm, eyes still closed. 

She doesn’t so much glow as… turn on like a low watt lilac light bulb. 

“Oh,” she gasps. “ _Mijo.”_

Sabrina crumples to her knees, presses her forehead against the tree, hand still on the snake. 

Scott diverts his eyes when she begins to laugh as well. 

Chris snickers, nudges her with his muddy boot. 

“He’s taken his silent treatments to a while new level.” 

They both laugh. 

“Guys?”

They continue to laugh. Scott tries again. No response. 

“Hey!”

Sabrina turns herself to him, face startlingly wet as she smiles. 

“What’s going on?”

“My boyfriend’s a tree. That’s what’s going on.” 

Chris starts to laugh again. It echoes through the clearing like shots fired. 

 

 

“This is so weird,” Kira states, pacing in front of the coffee table. 

Scott is entirely with her on this. 

“Hey,” Chris cuts in, sprawling on the love seat next to Sabrina. “You don’t get to say that. I do. I’m the one who fucked a tree. Well… _We_ do.” 

Kira stills, stares between Sabrina— who is still lightly… on— and Chris. 

“ _Christopher,_ ” Stiles’ dad hisses. 

“This is _really_ weird,” Kira continues, her pacing renewed. 

Scott stands, unsure, in front of the couch but does not sit. Derek and Lydia are silent like dolls in their place on the couch. It worries Scott. They’re usually not this quiet. He needs their help. He needs them to help him work this out. It’s not that Scott is dumb but… he’s not as smart as Lydia and he doesn’t have the knowledge that Derek does about this stuff. He needs them, they're input and insights. 

“Come on, Sheriff. Stiles is probably loving this.” 

“You need to calm down,” Stiles dad says in a hard voice. 

“I’ll calm down when I’m not part of some— arboreal love affair.”

Stiles’ dad opens his mouth again but Sabrina beats him to it. 

“Chris, maybe you should go lie down…”

“How can he _be_ a tree?” Kira continues to mutter to herself. “People don’t turn into trees.” 

Scott is wondering the same thing. And what happened to his body? Stiles was not a small person as much as everyone may have thought so. 

“I don’t need to lie down,” Chris snaps. 

“This isn’t helping anything.” 

It doesn’t make sense, really. Not when Scott thinks about it. Stiles must have weighed in at around one-hundred-and-seventy pounds. He was lanky but he was tall. Scott may not know much but he knows conservation of mass. A nearly two hundred pound man doesn’t turn into a five foot snake. Not without leaving something behind. 

“I’m pretty sure there’s nothing _to_ help.” 

“And what’s with the snake? What does that even mean? So weird…” 

So where’s the rest of him? Where’s Stiles’ body. Yeah, he may be in the tree-snake thing but that still leaves a good bit unaccounted for. 

“Stiles wouldn’t—”

“Shut up. You don’t get to tell me what Stiles would or would’t want, _mistress._ ”

“What happened to his body? It makes no sense,” Kira continues.

Scott breathes in deep, realization hitting him. 

“ _His body_.” 

“You’re being cruel. Stop it.” 

“No crueler than my tree lover.” 

“It’s not his body!” Scott says, loud. 

“Jesus, Chris. _Stop._ I know you’ve lost but so has everyone here.” 

“Shut up!” Scott yells.

The room goes quiet. Everyone turns to Scott. 

“See? That’s rude.” 

_“Chris. Please._ ”

“Shut up,” Scott says again, grinning. 

He takes a deep breath, all eyes on him. 

“ _It’s not his body.”_

“What?”

“The tree isn’t his body. Stiles’s still out there and we have to find him.” 

The room erupts into a cacophony of confused voices.

 

 

“Are we just assuming that a soulless body is gonna stop by here for a milkshake?” Lydia asks as Scott tapes a flyer to the door of a Steak ’N’ Shake. 

Scott shrugs. 

“Is that any weirder than him turning into a tree with a snake eating its own tail circling it?” 

Lydia harrumphs. 

“I suppose not. This stuff regularly defies logic so.” 

They move on together to the next building. Far off, Scott can hear Kira talking to the owner of a shop, explaining what they’re there for. 

 

 

“Hang on. I’ve got one more stop,” Chris says, pulling into an alley somewhere in the center of Saint Louis. 

The city is big. Not like San Francisco where everything is crammed together but sprawling big. Narrow buildings squeezed by nothing but themselves squat along every street, the roads are, by turn, wide and expansive or narrow and bumpy without any rhyme or reason. No one area seems to have the same feel or look as another. It seems, to Scott, more like twelve small cities crammed together. 

Chris turns into a parking lot and they all clamber out, tired, and ready to sit for a long time. 

Scott follows Chris to a coffee shop just outside of the parking lot they parked in. It looks both sleek and out of touch. 

“There’s a bar down the street. Attitudes. They’ll let you put up some posters.” 

Derek nods and the others head that way. Scott stays. 

“You gonna go with them?”

“No.”

Chris takes in a deep breath then lets it out slowly. He didn’t used to do that. Scott wonders where he got the habit. 

“Wait here then.” 

Scott nods and sits down at the small table in front of the shop. He doesn’t know why Chris makes him wait. He knows he’s a werewolf and can hear him anyway. Not only that but the shop’s front is nothing but one giant glass window broken up by the bricks around the front door which is also glass. 

Scratching at the wire top of the table, Scott watches Chris walk in. 

The man behind the counter waves before reaching behind himself and untying his apron. 

“Afternoon, Chris. Is Stiles still parking? I was wondering when he’d come back to work.” 

Scott’s heart thumps strangely. This is where Stiles worked? This tiny coffee shop with abstract art hung on the walls? Scott peers in harder, looking, searching for clues of Stiles. The place is mostly tables and soft chairs. A lounge set in the back corner made out of what looks to be soft leather. He doesn’t see it. But, then again, Scott never gave much thought to Stiles working. 

Chris clears his throat, sets his stack of flyers on the counter. 

“He’s not coming in today. Stiles is… missing.” 

The man pauses in the middle of pulling his apron off over his head. 

“No shit?”

Chris nods, pushes the flyers over to him. 

“Could you— Could you hang some of these up? Maybe pass them out?”

The man looks down at them and his face pales. 

“ _Shit._ You’re not kidding.” 

“No. I’m not.”

It’s silent inside for a few seconds. 

Scott watches a car pull out of the lot they parked in, feeling like he shouldn’t be watching, like he should have gone with Derek and Lydia and Kira. 

“Did he lose himself again? What’d he call it? Disassociate?” 

Scott listens as Chris takes a big breath in and lets it out with a, “Yeah. We think so.” 

His heart does not stutter over his words. 

“I remember it happened a couple of times when we were on the same shift. Some scary shit, that. Just stood there repeating the same thing over and over last time. And when it was none, he spent like an hour staring at his hands and counting.” 

Chris’ heart, Scott notices, does stutter over this. 

“When did that happen?”

The man shrugs. 

“Couple of months ago. Scared away our customers and sure as hell freaked me out.” 

Chris’ heart is racing now. It makes Scott tense, nervous. 

“What was he saying?”

“'Change is death.' Or something like that.” 

Chris breathes shakily and Scott is feeling the same way. Shaky. 

“Thanks, Dracho.” 

“Yeah, man. Anytime. Stiles used to babysit my kids for me sometimes. You let me know if I can do anything to help.” 

Chris nods, leaves the flyers on the counter, and turns. 

There’s something almost scared on his face that Scott can’t place. When he steps outside, Chris shifts his eyes to the sky and breathes deep, even breathes. 

“Chris—”

“We better hurry. It’s gonna rain soon.” 

Scott stands, frowning. The sky is clear, blue, without a hint of a cloud. 

He wonders what else Chris knows that he doesn’t. 

 

It does end up raining. It starts as soon as they park in the driveway of Stiles’ dad’s place. 

“Leave the flyers and go,” Chris instructs but Kira, Lydia, and Derek are already out of the car and running towards the porch. Scott doesn’t move even as Sabrina’s car parks next to them and the others pile out of it and into the house. 

Chris stares straight ahead, eyes fixed on the windshield or some middle distance in the rain, hands tight on the wheel. 

“You should go,” Chris says, voice so quiet the rain pounding on the hood of the car overpowers it. 

“Aren’t you coming?”

Chris shakes his head. 

“Where are you going?”

Chris swallows, his heart beats out of rhythm briefly. 

“I’ll be back tomorrow morning to pick you all up.” 

Scott reaches out, touches Chris’ shoulder. 

“We’re here,” Scott says, going for soothing. “I’m here for him, too.” 

Chris gives a jerky nod. 

“I know.” 

“I’ll see you tomorrow?”

Chris exhales. 

“Yeah.” 

Scott gets out, satisfied, and heads inside. 

 

No one sees Chris for days. Stiles’ dad says not to worry and that Chris texted him but Scott does anyway. In between walking this city full of people he doesn’t know, hanging up flyers in shops he’s never heard of, and talking to people who all sound just a little bit… off. There’s already enough for him to worry about as it is though. There’s already so much he has to adjust for. 

It’s just that the longer he’s here the more he feels as if he’s fallen into some bizarre alternate universe where everything is sort of the same but mostly not. He doesn’t know what a Schnucks is. He’s no idea why people keep telling him he should eat concrete, and apparently there’s a pizza place called Emos. He’s never seen so many individually wrapped pickles in his life. It’s strange. He never thought he could experience such culture shock without leaving the country. 

But now here he is watching a printer spit out page after page after page of Stiles’ face with a description of a man he barely knows, a phone number that starts with three, and the words, “Have you seen me?” printed in big bold letters across the top. 

“No,” Scott thinks. “I have not.” 

“Hey,” Sabrina calls to him. 

Scott looks away from the printer. 

“I want to show you something.” 

Scott follows her lead down the stairs and outside, into her car. 

It smells of Stiles here too. It’s discomfiting in a way, to occupy spaces Stiles has without having memories of being there with him. 

She starts the car and begins to drive. 

He waits until they’re on the highway to ask where they’re going. It doesn’t seem important enough. Everywhere he goes he’s chasing ghosts. 

“Somewhere I think you need to see.” 

 

It’s a small house. Blue, and boxy like all the others in the neighborhood. There are kids playing in the street. 

Sabrina pulls all the way through the driveway and parks in front of the separated garaged behind it. The backyard is bigger than he thinks it should be. There’s a patio table, a couple ashtrays here and there, what looks to be an actual park bench squatting at the divide from porch to driveway. A small bird is perched on the back of the bench, watchful but obviously not frightened by Sabrina’s car. 

Sabrina takes a deep breath and turns the car off. 

“Where—”

“This is Stiles’ house.” 

Scott swallows. 

“Come with me.” 

The back door opens to a set of stairs. Sabrina leads him down instead of up. 

“He rents out the rooms upstairs but down here… it’s all his.” 

Stiles’ scent wraps around Scott as they descend. It smothers him, causes his throat to thicken and dry out. 

With a snap, a light blinkers on. 

Another snap. More light. 

As Scott stands at the bottom of a very narrow set of stairs, watching Stiles’ life become illuminated before his eyes, he gets… lost. 

Every wall has a book case crammed full. There’s an old trunk in front of a soft looking couch, a love seat catty corner to the couch with a blanket, some pens and notebooks atop it. A slim desk is guarding a nook to the side of the stairs. A white and red carton of cigarets, an abandoned coffee mug next to an orange pill bottle the only things on it. An empty rat cage, framed photo by a closed set of folding doors with Stiles and another man in harnesses on a cliff face. 

Scott walks closer to it, needing the image, needing the picture because— he has the context. He knows the boy who moved here but he doesn’t know the man who _lived_ here. 

There’s bags under his eyes, a tightness to his mouth. He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t frown. It’s his eyes, though, that unsettle Scott. 

It’s the kind of stare that looks at him, through him, and a thousand yards beyond. 

This is a man who is well acquainted, comfortable even, with hell. 

“Stiles was—” Sabrina hisses out a breath as if angry at herself. “Is a good man. But I don’t know if he’s the man you knew.” 

She steps beside him, looks also at the photo. 

“The man I know is quiet,” She says softly. “Deeply troubled but he cares. So much.” 

Scott thinks about the Stiles he knew. Talkative, friendly, sure of himself. He thinks about how many days and nights he spent listening to Stiles, watching him throw gestures and words as if they were plentiful and disposable. How many times has he seen Stiles laugh? Flail? Go on for hours about Lydia’s hair or werewolf lore or town gossip? Where is that boy in this man?

Where is his Stiles?

“He’s very private so when he let me in it felt like— it felt like _benediction._ ” 

The door to their right opens with a sudden jerk and Scott flinches, cursing himself for not checking the house, for not making sure they were alone. 

He dodges away, pulling Sabrina with him, heart pounding. 

“I thought I heard voices.” 

The crossbow is lowered. 

“He’s not here. I already checked,” Chris continues, leaning against the open door. His clothes are wrinkled as if he slept in them, shirt just on the side of too big.

Sabrina huffs, shakes herself free of Scott’s hold. 

“I know. I thought Scott might want to see so I—”

“I get it.” Chris nods, face blank. 

“I didn’t mean to—”

Chris sighs loudly over whatever Sabrina was trying to say. 

“ _I know_.” 

Sabrina takes a step towards Chris, hesitant. 

“Can I show him the bedroom?”

Chris shrugs. Scott fidgets. 

“It’s not my house.” 

“Yeah, but—”

Chris goes tense, shoulders stiff and jaw clenched. 

“You’re lacking some context, Sabrina. Scott— Scott was very important to Stiles. I sincerely doubt he’d mind.” 

Scott shifts in place, leaning back on his left foot, looking to the stairs behind him. His presence here suddenly feels like an invasion. He wonders in an abstract way if archeologists feel the same way stepping into tombs to shovel out clues about how the people who came here first lived. 

He didn’t know the man who lived here. This is evident in how unfamiliar it is even with Stiles’ familiar scent everywhere. 

He shouldn’t be here. It’s trespassing on the private spaces of a man he doesn’t know and he isn’t here to invite Scott in. 

Scott turns his head back to the two other people in the room in time to see Chris disappear from the doorway. 

“There is no space that Stiles had where Scott would not be welcome.”

Chris’ voice is sure, steady, as if he speaks fact and not assumption. His words are oddly comforting. Maybe because Chris knew Stiles from before and now. Whatever the reason, Scott steadies himself with a deep breath, and walks into Stiles’ room. 

 

It’s surprisingly tidy, open. There’s a bed with no headboard, two plain, roughly made night stands with shelves instead of drawers, a long closet with no door, a dresser that’s also mostly shelves filled with books, some pet toys, a food bowl, and a water drip near the bed. 

The floor is concrete in here with a frayed cut of gray carpet over the empty space between bed and dresser. One solitary bare bulb hangs from the ceiling casting dim light onto the room. There’s a lamp on one of the night stands with a crooked shade, its cord coiled around it as if awaiting use, as if its owner knew it wouldn’t be used for some time. 

The room should be depressing. It should seem bleak and stark with its lack of color and decoration, its lack of personality but… it doesn’t. The clothes hung in the closet are familiar; a mix of T-shirts and variously colored and patterned overshirts. Boxes and blankets layer the bottom, placed with an absent-minded sort of care. 

Scott walks along the edge of the room and is comforted by the framed photos he finds. There are strangers in all of them, yes, but he’s in every single one. Never smiling, always staring, but there. In forests and bars, streets, coffee shops, parks, museums… Sitting on couches with an arm around someone, standing on bleachers wearing mittens, still and quiet while everyone around him is blurred in cheering motion. This is who Stiles is now; taciturn, still, present, and far away. 

Scott stops in front of one in the far corner. 

Here, Stiles smiles wearing a gown and holding a diploma in front of his dad’s house. Triumphant. 

Scott drags his eyes away at the sounds of movement, remembering he's not alone. 

Chris is crouched at one end of the closet, moving things around. 

“Don’t,” Scott almost says, wanting to preserve this, until a blanket he’s seen before is set down to the side. His mom made that. 

Chris stands with a grunt, hefting a large, well-worn, box. He crosses the space between them with slow, burdened steps. 

“Take this,” Chris tells him, handing the box over. 

“What— what is it?” Scott asks as he takes the box automatically. It’s heavy but he’s stronger. 

“Letters to you.” 

Scott frowns and lifts the lid up with one hand, balancing the box against his torso. 

Inside are notebooks and leaf paper, scraps of torn, uneven sheets, receipts with words scribbled on them. All of it has Stiles’ handwriting on it. At least Scott recognizes that still. 

“He wrote to you all the time,” Chris says, voice soft, gentle. 

Scott wonders why they were never sent. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Summary from Silversun Pick Up's Three seed. Title is from Portishead. 
> 
> Shout out to ambreechristineskye from Tumblr for reasons. Important ones. Mostly that post you made on Tumblr. I appreciate that. 
> 
> And also a great big thank you to everyone who has stuck with me through this story. We've been walking down this fucked up depressing road for a year. One whole year already and it's not even done. So thanks for that. I find it amazing that some of you have been dedicated enough to keep coming back every time I post a chapter. Even if you don't comment I see you there making that hits counter go up. So thank you, silent, readers, for being a quiet presence throughout this whole thing.


	30. A Certain Romance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Been thinking about you, and there's no rest. Shit, I still love you...All the things you got All the things you need. Who bought you cigarettes and bribed the company To come and see you, honey...I've been thinking about you, so how can you sleep?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just so you have it if you don't, my tumblr is monstertesk. Feel free to bother me at any time. I ramble a lot and I'm not as nice when I actually have to interact but I'd definitely welcome the harassment. 
> 
> Also: If anyone is interested, I'm considering having a sort of... confidant about this story. Someone I can talk to about what's happening and what I have planned to help me work it out and refine it better. I'm not looking for a beta reader. I'm looking for someone who is familiar with this story and would talk on Skype or over the phone about this story periodically to help me sort out my head because it's difficult to internalize all of this.  
>  But it has to be verbal. As much as I hate being verbal, it helps a lot to sort out everything a lot better than typing. Would need to be available late at night (after midnight central time) or on the weekends. Keep in mind taking me up on this would mean having the whole fucking thing spoiled for you. In return I'll write shit for you. Like one-shots and prompt-fics. That sort of thing. Whatever you want as long as I'm not uncomfortable writing it. 
> 
> I'm honestly not expecting anyone to take me up on this but I figure a shot in the dark is better than blind panic. If you are, hit me up on tumblr or email me. Just add @gmail to my username.

“I’m sorry,” Kira says, hands on his shoulders. “Work won’t give me any more days.”

Scott smiles, trying to hide his disappointment. 

“It’s alright.” 

She shakes her head.

“ _It’s not_. But I’ll try to get in touch with my mom’s friends; see if they know anything. Dad’s researching it and— and I will, too. I’m not going to stop just cause I’m leaving.” 

Scott nods his thanks. 

“You better go. Your flight leaves soon.” 

Kira nods, biting her lip. 

“I’ll try to come back. I _will._ ” 

Scott kisses her forehead and pushes her towards the terminal. 

“Go.” 

She does, turning at the door to wave. 

“I love you!” she yells then trips over nothing.

“I love you, too,” he says. 

He’ll miss her, he knows. It’s just… she’s _so_ much like Stiles. Or. How Stiles used to be. He’s not so sure anymore that they have so much in common. At one point, she was a soft balm of familiarity in an ever-changing and terrifying world, but now— he loves her. He does. It’s just that he loved Stiles first, loves him more than nearly everyone except— 

“Come on,” Derek says, sliding an arm across Scott’s shoulders. “We have work to do.” 

Scott nods. They do.

 

_I miss you so much, Scotty. Everyday. I think I’m getting better, too. The nightmares are still there but I haven’t had an episode in days and I’m pretty sure I haven’t slept walked anywhere._

_I want to call you to tell you this. I do. I want to hear your voice so bad but- when I pick up the phone I see her. I can’t_

_I can’t talk to you. I’m sorry. So sorry. Everyday._

“Hey.” 

Scott jerks, snapping the notebook shut. Chris sits down on the bench next to him. It’s quiet this evening. Sometimes all the way out here, it feels as if nothing bad could reach him. Except it already did. The bad thing happened _here._

“How is it?” Chris asks, gesturing at the notebook.

Scott licks his lips while he tries to figure out a way to answer that. He hadn’t known how thoroughly Stiles’ possession had affected him until now. He assumed there were some ill effects but… not to this extent. He truly, honestly, hadn’t known. 

“Surprising,” is what he settles on. 

Chris huffs as if amused, leans back on the bench and stares out at the tree line. 

“If anything, Stiles was that,” he softly remarks. 

Scott sees the opening; his chance to ask about Chris’ relationship with Stiles. It doesn’t make _sense_ and he wants it to so much.

Scott clears his throat. 

“He blames himself. For Allison. Did you— Did you know that?”

That’s _not_ what he meant to ask. He doesn’t know why he did. Scott’s heart thumps in his chest as Chris leans forward, fixes his eyes on his own bare hands. 

“I… had my suspicions but we didn’t talk about it.” 

Scott looks away, watches a robin hop on the ground, flipping leaves and pecking at the ground. 

“But you two… talked often?”

Chris takes in a deep breath. Scott can hear him move but he doesn’t look, just continues to watch the robin.

“Yeah. We did.” 

“What about?”

Chris’ heart beats weirdly and a scent of an emotion Scott could nearly call fondness wafts off of the man. 

“Laundry mostly.” 

Scott frowns, nonplussed, and looks over. 

Chris is smiling, softly, gently, leaning back on the bench and looking up at the sky, fingers clasped together in his lap. 

“Laundry?”

Scott really can’t believe that. 

“And books,” Chris adds. 

 

 

As with many things related to the inexplicable, Scott decides to ask Derek about it. He waits until they’re paired up for the grid search in the woods. They’ve gradually been increasing the radius since they arrived but it’s difficult. Stiles obviously spent a lot of time in the woods surrounding his dad’s house and sometimes it’s difficult to distinguish his scent from the natural smell of the woods. 

“What do you think about Mister Argent?”

Derek pauses, presumable to check their location against the map. 

“Don’t really think about him that much.” 

Scott huffs, knowing Derek is being obtuse. 

“Isn’t it weird, though? Him and Stiles.” 

Derek shrugs, starts to walk again. Scott keeps his eyes on the ground. He’s supposed to be looking for tracks in a moderately populated copse of trees that’s regularly trafficked by deer and dog and woodchucks. 

“I don’t know.” 

Scott frowns, waits for Derek to elaborate. He’s found, over the years, that giving Derek time to think and not pressing for an answer immediately means a better explanation. 

“From what I know of the two of them, it doesn’t make sense, but—” Derek takes a big breath, shrugs again. “That was then. Now is different. People change, Scott, and sometimes the unlikely becomes the inevitable.”

 

 

“I haven't been able to find anything about this.” 

Kira’s voice is remorseful, disappointed, over the phone. 

Scott hits the print button on the computer and the printer clunks to life, probably just as tired as Scott is of printing these flyers. 

“It’s alright. Thanks for trying.” 

Kira sighs. 

“It might be time to call him…” 

Scott clenches his jaw, shoulders stiffening. 

“I don’t—”

“You know you’ll hate yourself and question your decisions if you don’t try everything and this is part of everything.” 

Scott doesn’t argue because he knows she’s right. She usually is. It’s one of the reasons he loves her.

 

 

“This is interesting,” Deaton says. 

Through the shaky Skype connection, Scott watches his face as he clicks through the photos they sent. 

“But what does it mean?” Stiles’ dad asks. 

They’re all sitting around the kitchen table, tense, watching Deaton through Derek’s laptop screen. 

Deacon takes in a deep breath. 

“Historically, the snake is a symbol of healing, the ouroboros— a snake eating its own tail— of eternity, renewal, the cycle of death and rebirth, light and dark, but in this context? Around a tree like this? I’m hesitant to say precisely what it means. Not with only pictures to go off of.” 

Scott watches Derek shift a few inches over in his seat, face scrunched up. 

“The clearing is—” Derek starts, pauses. “There’s something about it.” 

Scott nods in agreement.

“Besides the creepy snake and the death?” Lydia asks, arms crossed. 

“When I try to step into it, I get a similar sensation to when there’s a mountain ash line. Something… my instincts? say I should go no farther,” Scott adds.

“Hmm. Very interested indeed. Did Kira feel this as well?”

Everyone turns their eyes to Scott. She never said anything but—

“She didn’t even try to. She walked the tree line but never crossed it.” 

“I may have to see this in person,” Deaton remarks, looking more intrigued and pleased than Scott feels appropriate. 

 

Scott dreams about walking passed a stranger in the street, of sitting a booth away from someone he doesn’t know, having his to-go cup of coffee at the drive-thru prepared by an enigma. He dreams of the man he sees in the photos on the walls, and walks right by him. He dreams he walked right passed him at the airport the day he arrived, that this stranger has flown some place he cannot follow and will never return. 

When he does, he wakes up feeling an emptiness inside, a hollow place he forgot was there aching, swollen with what is missing. 

 

_I kissed Chris today. Isn’t that a fucking unbelievable fact? Stiles Stilinski kissed Chris Argent. It was a good kiss, as far as they go. Actually it was surprisingly hot. I just wanted to tell you. He turned me down after. I don’t know why. I can tell that he wants me. For whatever reason._

_Maybe it’s what I deserve. After what I did, after all the pain I’ve caused him, maybe he’s repulsed by me. Maybe he hates that he wants me. I don’t know. I was afraid to ask. I’m afraid of so much._

_But_ _It’s… a surprise, yes. It’s just that when I’m with him I ~, forget to be sad. I don’t forget what happened or that I’m fucked up. He just makes me feel safe. I’m not explaining this right. I’m sorry._

_I miss you, bro._

_— Stiles_

 

“I’ve never seen this before.” 

“But…” Scott continues for Deaton. He always has a, “but,” or an “except.” 

Deaton smiles at him. It’s soft and kind and exactly how Scott remembers. 

“But it does bring to mind a few things I’ve heard about.” 

“Here,” Stiles’ dad says, holding out a cup of coffee for Deaton. 

“Thanks. It reminds me of what happened to an old friend of mine in a way.” 

Deaton pauses to take a sip and Scott wants to shout, to yell, to scream at him to hurry up, to stop with the dramatics and just spit it out. He can’t believe he put up with this for as long as he did.

“She took on a human form for love but eventually her human body gave out, rejected her inhuman presence and she had to pay the price for it. It’s a common fable, really.” 

Scott hears Stiles’ dad’s heart stumble over itself at that. 

“That’s not what happened to Stiles,” Derek cuts in, arms crossed, face thunderous. 

Deaton is quiet for a few moments. Scott fidgets. 

“It’s the same principle; an inhuman being takes a human form. Eventually, it’s forced to revert to its natural state.” 

Lydia clears her throat, face tight. Scott’s not sure what to think of any of this or how come what Deaton says all just seems a little… off. 

“Stiles was born human. Wouldn’t the way he was born be his natural state?”

Deaton shrugs, smiles pleasantly. 

“Maybe.” 

“Orrr you could be completely wrong,” Lydia snaps, frowning. “This could be something like what happened to Jackson and the way Stiles is now could be an intermediary state caused by physical trauma.” 

Deaton hums. 

“Possibly. The difference here is that there is no cocoon, so to speak. Stiles’ body has completely vanished.” 

Stiles’ dad shifts as if he’s uncomfortable where he sits, face screwed up. 

“Now, I’m just a novice at this weird stuff but, when—- when Claudia was… she said it was her body rejecting her presence. That whatever allowed her to be… human didn’t last forever without her, uh, original form and that— that with the destruction she couldn’t stay the way she was because her— she had lost her grip on the… human world so she had to go back.” 

Scott blinks, trying to make sense of all that. He’s been trying to make sense of everything since he arrived. 

“What?” Derek asks.

Scott’s with Derek on this one.

Deaton nods, frowning as if he understands. 

“I didn’t think of that. Thank you, Sheriff.” 

“Think of what?”

“Claudia was a very unique individual,” Deaton begins. “When she allowed herself a human form, it weakened her protection and power since she didn’t simply transform, she _created_ a new body. This allowed her to be cut down and without her essence being present in her original body, she became untethered. This could be the reverse of that. When Stiles’ human form was cut down, he _became_ tethered.” 

Scott raises his hand, uncertain and reverting back to the school boy he’d been when he leaned on Deaton for everything. Deaton looks at him and nods, his eyes kind and twinkling. They make the hairs on the back of his neck stand at attention. 

‘ _Like Dumbledore,’ the Stiles in the back of his head hisses. ‘Creepy and manipulative while trying to act like your friend.’_

“What was Stiles’ mom?”

“The nematon, of course.”

The table erupts into noise, a symphony of confused voices coming from every pack member. 

The only one silent is Derek. Whose heart races. Scott can see his face blanch slowly while everyone else volleys questions at Deaton. 

 

It’s early morning and Scott knows there’s only two people awake. He’s made sure of it while heading down the stairs that this is true. 

“Morning,” Stiles’ dad says as he fixes himself a cup of coffee. 

“Morning, Mister Stilinski.” 

“Want some?”

Scott shakes his head, going for the fridge and the jug of orange juice within.

“Thanks though.” 

“You’re welcome.” 

It’s quiet while Scott gets out a cup and pours himself a big glass. 

Birds are beginning to twitter outside as the sun slowly rises, false dawn light bruising the trees outside the kitchen window a gentle sleepless blue.

“Want some breakfast? I’ve got turkey bacon…” 

Scott smiles and sits at the island. 

“Sure. Thanks.” 

“I’m feeling like pancakes. What d’you say?”

Stiles’ dad smiles this small, soft thing that doesn’t reach the bags under his eyes. 

“Sounds good.” 

Scott waits until he’s mixed all the ingredients together in a big metal bowl, watching the man’s slow, careful movements. 

“Can I ask you a question?”

Stiles’ dad pauses his stirring. 

“Sure, kiddo.” 

“Stiles… Did he— Did he love Mister Argent?”

Stiles’ dad sighs, sets down the bowl on the counter. 

“Y-yeah. I think he did.” 

Scott frowns. 

“He never said?”

Stiles’ dad shrugs.

“Not in so many words, but… it was easy to tell.” 

Scott looks down, licks his lips. 

“How? Why? They’re so—”

“Sometimes,” Stiles’ dad clears his throat. “Sometimes people grow, change, and something that didn’t seem possible before becomes… inevitable.” 

Stiles’ dad sits down opposite Scott with a slow breath. 

“Watching them together— it was the closest to happy I’ve seen Stiles in a long time and… and I could tell, I think, that Chris felt the same.” 

Scott sighs, tired, weary, still uncertain and confused. 

“It’s just Chris isn’t acting like, like—”

Stiles’ dad reaches across the island and lays his hand on Scott’s shoulder. 

“He is. He’s just trying not to. Honestly, he’s reminding me of how I acted when, when Claudia went away.” 

Scott grunts, leans back on his stool, thinking. 

Chris had been acting withdrawn interspersed with weird outbursts but— Scott remembers how Chris had laughed when they found the snake, his unsettling tree jokes, how he’d obviously been sleeping in Stiles’ house. The way he’s been obsessing over Paul’s part in it all. The way he is, by turn, antagonistic and friendly towards Sabrina. Individually, his actions are unsettling and out of character but put together, Scott can’t help but to think it’s all reminiscent of _Stiles._

How many times had Stiles said an off-color joke when he was anxious? How often had Stiles withdrawn when whatever crisis they’d been dealing with had become too much? How often had Stiles fixated on one person as if they were the one responsible for the problem at hand? 

Maybe they weren’t so different after all. 

“Thanks, Mister Stilinski.” 

“Any time,” Stiles’ dad says with a flash of a smile and pat on the back. 

“Do you want bananas and chocolate chips in your pancakes?”

Scott nods, smiling, remembering how much Stiles loved chocolate banana pancakes. He almost points out that they were Stiles’ favorite but he thinks Stiles’ dad already knows. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Summary from Thinking About You by Radiohead. Title is the title of an Arctic Monkeys song. The chapter after this one is the last one from Scott's point of view so get ready for it to be suuuuper depressing again after that cause what's lined up is different. 
> 
> On a separate note, I'm going to be visiting home from the 5th to like the 12th(my birthday) so I most likely will not be able to post anything the next two weeks since the place I'll be spending most of my time doesn't have internet. Hell, it doesn't even have an _address_ just coordinates. I'm very excited to be back where my bones are from.   
>  I might- MIGHT- try to get the next chapter typed up before I leave so I can post it without having to take a lot of time away from my trip but no promises. IF I do this it'll post on the sixth which is like the last day I'll be able to access the internet.


	31. When You Were Here Before

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes you miss the memories not the person.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No idea where the summary quote is from. I just saw it on the bathroom wall at a bar and thought it poignant. The title is a lyric from Creep which is one of my all-time favorite songs. I love basically every cover of it.The part of Dante's Inferno that Chris is reading is Canto I: The Dark Wood and the Hill.

“In the middle of the journey of our life, I came to myself, in a dark wood, where the direct way was lost.”

The wind blows lightly, ruffling Scott’s hair as he walks carefully through the underbrush. The sky is clear, the air is chilly, and whatever wildlife calls these woods home is silent.

“It is a hard thing to speak of, how wild, harsh and impenetrable that wood was, so that thinking of it recreates the fear.”

Scott continues to follow that quiet, steady, voice until the woods pause briefly to allow a small meadow. He stands, watches, and listens.

“It is scarcely less bitter than death: but, in order to tell of the good that I found there, I must tell of the other things I saw there. I cannot rightly say how I entered it. I was so full of sleep, at that point where I abandoned the true way. But when I reached the foot of a hill, where the valley, that had pierced my heart with fear, came to an end.”

The page is turned, a pause for breath. 

“You’re still not that sneaky, Scott.”

Scott stills, thinks briefly of fleeing.

“What’re you reading?” he asks instead, pushing himself into the clearing.

Chris closes the book.

“Dante’s Inferno,” he answers, leaning against the tree— Stiles— as if it’s the most natural of things. Scott wonders how he can do that especially with his legs stretches over the earth where they re-buried the snake. 

“I thought it might tickle him, considering.” 

Scott huffs in amusement despite himself because Stiles would. 

“What’re you doing here, Scott?”

Scott winces, draws his shoulders up.

“Snooping?”

Chris laughs. It echoes through the empty space between them. He sets the book down next to him and spreads his arms out. 

“Find out what you needed to?”

Scott shakes his head, shuffles closer with his hands in his pockets. 

“I’m trying to understand but—”

“It’s not for _you_ to understand, Scott. You weren’t— We were—”

Chris sighs, looks away, jaw twitching. 

“You two were what? Close friends? Convenient? Familiar? What?”

He needs to know. He has to. Nothing about it makes _sense_. 

Chris slumps.

“ _There_ ,” he whispers. “He was there and he knew them and he… he understood me.” 

Overwhelmed with guilt, Scott sits down on the other side of the snake. He didn’t understand. He couldn’t have. He didn’t— _know_. 

Chris looks so… sad. Shoulders drooped, head down, arms limp at his sides, book abandoned. 

“He’d have said otherwise, but… He made everything so much more bearable. He gave me a solace I didn’t think I deserved. So. You don’t need to understand. He did. That’s all that matters. _He did._ ” 

Chris’ breathes are shaky, the air tastes just a little bit saltier than before. 

It doesn’t matter, Scott decides as he watches a grown man try not to cry. It’s obvious something was— is— there. 

“How’s the next part go? Scott asks then gestures to the book. “What’s going to happen next?”

Chris picks the book back up, sniffles quietly, then takes a deep breath and reads. 

“But when I reached the foot of a hill, where the valley, that had pierced my heart with fear, came to an end, I looked up and saw its shoulders brightened with the rays of that sun that leads men rightly on every road. Then the fear, that had settled in the lake of my heart, through the night that I had spent so miserably, became a little calmer. And as a man, who, with panting breath, has escaped from the deep sea to the shore, turns back towards the perilous waters and stares, so my mind, still fugitive, turned back to see that pass again, that no living person ever left.”

Scott sits and listens, head bent back, hands resting on the soil beneath them, and watches the leaves in the tree above them sway as if slowly moved by Chris’ every breath and spoken word. 

 

 

Days bleed into weeks. The search goes on, flyer after flyer is hung. Chris continues to act erratically though there is a slow trend towards some form of leveling out. Stiles’ dad seems to become more and more tired every time they pull back into the driveway with a spare seat.

Every couple of days, Scott wakes up and has to walk to that tree to retrieve Lydia. Mac and Sabrina come and help when they can. This seems, to Scott sometimes, to be his purgatory. Wake up, get Lydia, have breakfast, print flyers, walk in circles around where Stiles— disappeared, have dinner, call his mom, call Kira, read Stiles’ letters, lay in Stiles’ empty bed for hours, and hope that sleep comes and leaves without incident. 

It rarely does. 

 

 

“I miss you.” 

Scott smiles but it’s mostly sad. 

“I miss you, too, mom.” 

“You should come home.” 

Scott sighs, weary already. 

“I can’t. Not until I find him.” 

“And when will that be? In another month? Two months? Three?”

Scott clenches his jaw, looking out the window at the dark sky. The sun is just now setting in Beacon Hills but it went down here hours before.

“I— as long as it takes.” 

Mom sighs.

“I know you want to find him but you can’t put your life permanently on hold for this. He might never be found.” 

Scott sucks in air between his clenched teeth, free hand fisting at his side. 

“I can and I will. I— I _owe it_ to Stiles. I have to be here.” 

The “for him” is silent but understood. 

It’s true in the way few things are. He has an obligation to make sure that Stiles gets home safe— if not happy, then Scott must make sure that Stiles is whole and safe. Scott— Scott must do now what he neglected to do then: ensure that Stiles makes it home in one piece to his father. 

“I can’t make you come home, I know, but— But please don’t throw your life away.” 

Scott closes his eyes, listens to the sounds of Derek and Mac talking, of Chris and Stiles’ dad planning, and promises his mom nothing. 

“I gotta go. Love you.” 

“Love you, too. Happy Thanksgiving, Scott.” 

He hangs up, steels himself, and heads downstairs. He can’t make her any promises. He’s broken too many to count. 

 

 

“It’s peaceful, isn’t it?”

Scott nods but doesn’t turn his face away from the window to look at Mac. He can’t, transfixed as he is by the sight of falling snow. 

“We used to live together back in school. I’d find him out in it sometimes,” Mac pauses to blow against the window. She begins to draw something in the fog. Scott doesn’t need to ask who she’s referring to. 

“He’d just be standing in it with his hands cupped in front of him. I asked him why he’d do that once. All he said was he liked the way it sounded.” 

Scott says nothing in reply, simply watches her use her finger to draw a stick figure man and snow flakes and listens to the sounds falling snow makes as it settles on the ground, blanketing everything in white. 

 

 

Snow crunches under his feet as Scott walks carefully through the woods, the jacket he borrowed from Stiles’ closet wrapped tight around him. His breath fogs, ears hurt, and he shivers nearly uncontrollably. 

He’s following an easily discernible trail through the woods but he doesn’t need it to know where he’s going. 

He’s taken this path so many times that he could walk it with his eyes closed if not for the snow. 

Scott sniffles, hugging the spare coat and boots close to his chest as he clears the woods into the meadow, repressing the shiver of wrongness into the back of his mind. 

Lydia stands, barefoot and pink, next to the tree. Her head is tilted up, eyes fixed on the expanse of branches above her, shoulders square, hands clenched. She’s so still Scott fears for a moment that she’s frozen solid while standing there. 

Scott stops next to her, takes in her profile from tangled strawberry hair to the cherry red of her cheeks and lips. 

Lydia turns her head to him slowly, eyes unmoving. He doesn’t mind. Sometimes looking her in the eyes is like looking into an opaque crystal ball. he finds it… unsettling. 

“The leaves are still here,” she says, voice more air than sound. “I think they’re greener than before.” 

Scott doesn’t look. He can’t. There’s a part of him that finds the concept of nematon Stiles such an aberration of his fixed ideas of Stiles that make it impossible for him to look at it. 

“Here,” he says instead, and wraps the spare coat he carried here around her shoulders. “It’s cold.” 

“No,” she shakes her head. “He’s warm to the touch.” 

Lydia unfurls her clenched fists, stretches out her hand as the dull scent of blood mixes with the crisp, wet smell of snow. 

Before he can tell her not to, Lydia presses her bloodied palm to the tree. 

There’s a pulse. A wind he can’t feel causes the green, green leaves above them to shake. 

Lydia hisses, shudders, groans, as she falls to her knees. 

“He’s dreaming,” she says, voice growing stronger as she talks, eyes dulling, whiting like paper mâché. She licks her cherry lips. “There’s— there’s a man. Curly hair, dark skin, brown eyes. He’s— he’s smiling. No. Grimacing. Carrying Stiles somewhere cold. _I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, baby. I never meant— I never thought—_ “ 

Lydia jerks away from the tree, falling onto her ass with a grunt. 

Scott is breathing hard, hands clutching at the snow boots in them. He’s not shivering. No. He’s momentarily unaware of the cold. 

“Lydia?” 

She takes in a shaky breath, mouth firming. 

“I need paper and a pencil.”

The walk back is somehow longer than the walk there, snow crunching and screaming under their feet. Scott starts to shiver as they leave the clearing. Cardinals— unnaturally bright red and jarring against the stark white of the snow— call to one another and hop from tree to tree in front of them as if leading the way. 

Scott doesn’t want to speak. Lydia is mumbling to herself; details, colors, objects, shuffle from her mouth frantic and half-finished. He listens , trying to memorize as much as possible because sometimes what she sees flees from her like an incomplete dream. 

If it happens this time, he wants to have the words she is saying. Just in case. 

They’re mostly back now, the top of the dog run coming into view, peaking between branches when they crest small hills and disappearing from view when they descend. 

“Yellow clapboard,” Lydia hisses, hand tight on Scott’s arm, relying on him to navigate. “Big wrap-around porch. Two— three, _three_ stories.” 

He can just make out Derek and Mac talking inside, voices still soft and sleep thick. 

“Wanna try?” Mac asks, smile in her voice. 

“Y-yeah,” Derek responds quietly. “I do.” 

The slide of something ceramic against the countertop. 

“There’s more snow,” Lydia whispers. “A- a truck.. Tailgate says— says—” She hisses, nails digging in to Scott’s arm. 

“It’s good,” Derek says, voice surprised. 

Mac huffs. 

“Of course it is. Two great tastes that taste great together.” 

He can see not just the dog run now but also the tree house, fallen into disrepair and loosing pieces, on the other end of the yard. 

Derek makes a noise of agreement then, “Can— can you make me one, too?”

“It’s blue. Blue and the plates— the plates… I can’t see them.” 

“Sure,” Mac says, voice warm. “Do you want marshmallows in it too?”

A dog barks nearby, Ceana chirps in reply, prancing in agitation inside the dog run, eyes fixed on Lydia. 

“One big one?” 

“Brown, curly hair. Dark eyes. Strong nose.” 

“I hope so,” Mac mutters, voice turning a slight coquettish overtone. 

Derek coughs.

“Tall, lanky. Three story yellow clapboard.” 

Scott slips, slides on the snow covering the final slope into Stiles’ dad’s backyard. 

“He’s being carried. I think— I think he was trying to get away. It’s so cold. Colder than here.” 

Scott opens the back gate and Lydia walks through ahead of him. 

“Did you hear that?” 

“Hear what?” Mac asks.

Scott closes the gate behind him then heads to the dog run to bring Ceana back in.

“Lydia.” 

“There’s a blue truck. So much snow. No other houses in sight. Yellow house. Blue truck. Cobalt?”

Scott slides the latch to the dog run and Ceana pushes the door open for him. 

The back door opens with a familiar screech and Ceana circles him, excited, happy. 

“Get my sketchpad,” Lydia commands. 

Scott shoves his numb hands into his borrowed coat pockets and walks the path back to the house, Ceana beside him. 

He misses Kira. She’s always so warm. 

 

He’s sitting at a large wire table, staring at the park across the street, waiting. Paul and Chris are supposed to meet him and Derek here.

Scott shivers, shifts in place, looks on in amazement at a guy in sneakers and shorts as he leisurely strolls into the park across the way. It’s forty degrees, sun shining, snow melted into a disgusting slushy on the ground. 

Derek fidgets next to him for the fifth time in the last ten minutes. 

“Are you alright?” Scott asks, turning to Derek and the warm mug of hot chocolate he has on the table. 

Derek shrugs, eyes sliding away from him. 

“I’m just— glad to have a break in finding Stiles.” 

Guilt and… something waft off of Derek in heavy rolls. 

Scott shakes his head, frowning as he dips a spoon into the whipped topping on his drink. 

“You’ve been acting weird since we found out who— what Stiles’ mom was.” 

Derek opens his mouth, closes it, then breathes through his nose. 

“It’s my fault,” Derek says, voice low, mournful. “I— I need to find him. I need— to make it right.” 

Scott swirls his spoon, mixing his drink, eyes focused on his hands as he tries to parse that out. 

“How is it your fault?”

Derek huffs, jolts forward, hisses, “ _I’m the reason she was cut down.”_

There’s a clatter as Scott drops his spoon into his hot chocolate. It sinks quickly into the drink. 

Scott shakes his head, feeling warmed by his own rage. 

“That wasn’t you. That was, was Peter and Talia. You were a _kid!”_

Derek opens his mouth to reply, breathing heavy, hands clenching the cold metal of the table. 

“Hey, kids.” 

Scott jumps, whipping his head up towards the voice. 

He wheezes, briefly overwhelmed by the sheer _power_ coming off of the brick house of a man in front of him. 

Paul smiles, shifting as if he’s repressing a laugh. 

“Hi…” 

Scott watches as Paul folds his impressively large body into the tiny patio chair across the table from him. The man must be at least 6’4” and he’s _built._

Someone clears their throat. 

“Scott. Derek.” 

“Afternoon, Chris,” Derek says. 

Scott takes in a deep breath, feeling his face flush as he realizes what he’s breathed in. Hits of— of _sex_ , sweat, spit, lube, other _fluids._

“Thanks for meeting here,” Paul says, still smiling. 

“No problem?” Scott responds, weirded out and curious as to why it’s coming from both of them, why they arrived together. 

He thought Chris hated Paul. He thought— He thought Chris loved _Stiles._

There’s a flush creeping up Chris’ face like he knows Scott can tell. 

“Here,” Derek says gruffly, shoving his phone across the table. “This is Lydia’s sketch.” 

Paul hums as he picks up the phone then stills. 

“This isn’t one of mine. He’s—”

“ _Mandeep_ ,” Chris snarls, snatching the phone from Paul. 

Scott frowns. Again. He’s been doing that a lot recently. 

“He was one of Sonja and David’s… suitors.” 

Chris nods, eyes fixed on Derek’s phone. Scott can’t help but wonder what changed between Paul and Chris for them to— to…

“He—” Chris clears his throat after his voice sticks in it. “He drove Stiles off a bridge and into a river when he dumped him.” 

“Off a bridge?” Scott voice squeaks. “Like… _Off_ a bridge?”

Chris nods, face a grim line. 

“He was there when Sonja and David made their final move,” Paul says, voice nearly melodic. “I thought I’d killed him. Sumbitch was tougher than I thought.” 

Scott tries not to blanch at how casually Paul says he thought he killed someone. 

“He could have Stiles. He could be holding him against his will,” Derek exclaims softly, body vibrating with tension. 

Scott hisses, fingers digging into the ice cold table underneath them. 

“If he does then he’s not doing it here,” Paul responds, sighs. “He’s not been back to work since it happened and his apartment’s been empty.” 

Chris hands the phone back to Derek. 

“How do you know that?” 

Paul shifts, smiles at Chris. 

“I have my ways.” 

Chris huffs in irritation.

“We don’t have time for your vague bullshit, Hamilton.” 

Paul laughs like that’s funny. 

“I keep tabs on everyone inside my territory. No one has reported anyone matching Mandeep’s description.” 

“That doesn’t mean he’s not here,” Chris argues. 

“Yes, it does.” 

Chris snorts. 

“You’re such a cocky bastard.” 

Paul flashes Chris a grin Scott does not want to interpret. 

“With reason.” 

“If he’s not here, where else could he be?” Derek asks. 

Chris and Paul both still. Silence falls over the table, the street. No cars drive by and no people walk down the sidewalk. The only sound that reaches their solitary table is that of the bearded barista from Mokabe’s sorting the buss tray by the trash can. 

“I don’t know,” Paul says finally, voice soft. 

Scott’s hot chocolate has gone cold. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for not posting very often these last two months. Between my trip home, the winter storms, the outbreak in Central America, and my own crippling neurosis, it's been a really weird winter. 
> 
> Hopefully, you'll see another full chapter soon. But to make up for me not posting for so very long, I'm giving a bonus. The next chapter is not a full chapter but is actually just a section of it. Consider it a preview.


	32. Fake Plastic Trees

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drying up in conversation,  
> You will be the one who cannot talk  
> All your insides fall to pieces,  
> You just sit there wishing you could still make love
> 
> It's the best thing that you ever had,  
> The best thing that you ever, ever had  
> It's the best thing that you ever had,  
> The best thing you ever had has gone away

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title is a title from a Radiohead song. The summary is also Radiohead, High & Dry. This is the beginning of the next section which is titled Soak

_He’s laying in the grass, head pillowed on something firm. There’s a voice, soft and echoing, humming. Light flickers against his closed eyelids and he feels, briefly, peaceful._

_“You’ve never sung for me,” he says, voice syrupy._

_“No,” the voice says, a smile in it. “You never heard me.”_

_He opens his eyes and looks up._

_The brilliant light around them hallows him._

_Stiles smiles but it’s a tired thing stretching his mouth wide. His hair shifts in a breeze Chris does not feel._

_“I miss you.”_

_Stiles frowns at that, curling his fingers into Chris’ hair._

_“I know.”_

_It’s silent again._

_The trees whisper to each other secrets that Chris wishes he knew. Stiles bends down with a smile back on his face and the light goes with him._

_Warm lips touch Chris’ forehead. He closes his eyes, pained, at the ghosting of that skin against him. Warm breath slides over his brow like a laugh, like the way light used to jump into Stiles’ eyes right before he’d smile._

_“I know about Paul,” he says._

_“I’m so sorry.”_

_Stiles laughs like trees felling themselves._

_“Don’t be.”_

_“But—” Chris sits up, twisting to face Stiles. “I shouldn’t—”_

_Storm clouds form on Stiles’ face, darkening, flickering with the beginnings of lightning._

_“Why won’t you just give up?”_

_The lights inside flicker, groan._

_“I still—”_

_“You can’t save me,” Stiles snaps, standing on a mound four feet away._

“I know. _”_

_His arms cross and Chris is standing too, reaching for Stiles._

_“Then why don’t you let go? Give up.”_

_Chris shakes his head, feels cold all over, missing the warmth and light of the man he can no longer reach._

_“I can’t.”_

_Stiles scoffs. The woods around them flicker in and out like neon signs._

_“There’s no dragon to defeat.”_

_“I know.”_

_“I’m not a damsel in distress.”_

_“I know that.”_

_The grass under Stiles’ feet turns brown._

_“Then why won’t you let me go?”_

_The wind is screaming around them, howling at Chris._

_“I can’t!”_

_Stiles tilts his head to the side, arms dropping to his side._

_“You could let her go,” he says, voice quiet, dangerous._

_“Stiles—”_

_“You even_ helped _her leave you.”_

_Chris is panting, sweating into the grass under his bare feet. He’s so cold._

_“What makes me so different from Victoria that you can accept her decision and not mine?”_

_“There was—”The wind howls. The trees flicker off and on and off and on. “There were no other options with her.”_

_“And there is with me?” Stiles roars, spreading his arms._

_“YES!”_

_The light turns white. The grass disappears. Fluorescents pleat the ceiling, tiles grid the ground. He’s so cold._

_“Where? Where are they, Chris? What can you do? I died! I’m_ gone. _How can you— you feeble_ human _— fix that?”_

_Chris stumbles towards Stiles, reaching out with closed hands._

_Stiles is standing on an old stump, face twisted like ancient gnarled bark._

_“I can help. I can— I can keep you safe.”_

_Stiles laughs, flickers._

_He’s now behind him. Chris whirls. He’s in the woods again. He can never get away from here._

_Stiles stands at the edge of the tree line. There’s a shadow between them._

_“You can't save me.”_

_Chris grits his teeth, hunkering down._

_“I know.”_

_The shadow forms into a constellation, into an animal. Sirius. Black, blaze and maw grizzled._

_“They why do you keep trying?” Stiles asks, voice soft, inhumanly curious._

_The world flickers like a malformed lightbulb; switching between white room and dark forest. There’s a Stiles in front of him and behind. One and the same. Completely different. Negatives._

_“I’m not.”_

_“I’ve already died. Let me go. Stop trying.”_

_“No.”_

_“Why?”_

_Stiles voice comes from both directions at once. Dolby digital surround sound detachment._

_“I can’t.”_

_The wolf advances._

_Chris raises his fists, preparing to fight._

_There’s something silver in his hand._

_“You can’t save me.”_

_The world flickers, shifts. The wolf is a wolf in the dark and something else in the light. Stiles is a man in the light and something else— somewhere else— in the dark._

_“I know.”_

_“Then why?”_

_Chris says nothing. The wolf laughs, heckles._

_“What makes me different?”_

_Chris shakes his head._

_“You can’t save me.”_

_“I know.”_

_The wolf… thing continues to advance. His blade shines, sings, with the wind._

_“Then why?”_

_The world thrums, throbs._

_Chris raises his blade._

_“Why?”_

_There’s a pounding around him getting louder and louder and louder. It sounds— it sounds like the desperate clawing of a man who has buried himself alive._

_“WHY!” The trees screech._

 

Chris opens his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We'll be back to regular broadcasting soon enough. Just keep in mind that this is actually the first part of the next chapter. You might want to re-read this once I post the next one. Or. I might copy/paste it into the beginning of the next post. I haven't decided yet.


	33. Soak

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm in the days of throwing rocks  
> When I saw your picture on a silver coin  
> Stole a kiss through your golden locks  
> I had a dream that you were gone.  
> Woke up and you were gone
> 
> All the love has gone away  
> Cos I didnt have the heart or strength to say  
> I'll miss you when you're gone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have at it.
> 
>  
> 
> Reminder: the first part of this chapter will seem awfully familiar.

 

 

_He’s laying in the grass, head pillowed on something firm. There’s a voice, soft and echoing, humming. Light flickers against his closed eyelids and he feels, briefly, peaceful._

_“You’ve never sung for me,” he says, voice syrupy._

_“No,” the voice says, a smile in it. “You never heard me.”_

_He opens his eyes and looks up._

_The brilliant light around them hallows him._

_Stiles smiles but it’s a tired thing stretching his mouth wide. His hair shifts in a breeze Chris does not feel._

_“I miss you.”_

_Stiles frowns at that, curling his fingers into Chris’ hair._

_“I know.”_

_It’s silent again._

_The trees whisper to each other secrets that Chris wishes he knew. Stiles bends down with a smile back on his face and the light goes with him._

_Warm lips touch Chris’ forehead. He closes his eyes, pained, at the ghosting of that skin against him. Warm breath slides over his brow like a laugh, like the way light used to jump into Stiles’ eyes right before he’d smile._

_“I know about Paul,” he says._

_“I’m so sorry.”_

_Stiles laughs like trees felling themselves._

_“Don’t be.”_

_“But—” Chris sits up, twisting to face Stiles. “I shouldn’t—”_

_Storm clouds form on Stiles’ face, darkening, flickering with the beginnings of lightning._

_“Why won’t you just give up?”_

_The lights inside flicker, groan._

_“I still—”_

_“You can’t save me,” Stiles snaps, standing on a mound four feet away._

“I know. _”_

_His arms cross and Chris is standing too, reaching for Stiles._

_“Then why don’t you let go? Give up.”_

_Chris shakes his head, feels cold all over, missing the warmth and light of the man he can no longer reach._

_“I can’t.”_

_Stiles scoffs. The woods around them flicker in and out like neon signs._

_“There’s no dragon to defeat.”_

_“I know.”_

_“I’m not a damsel in distress.”_

_“I know that.”_

_The grass under Stiles’ feet turns brown._

_“Then why won’t you let me go?”_

_The wind is screaming around them, howling at Chris._

_“I can’t!”_

_Stiles tilts his head to the side, arms dropping to his side._

_“You could let her go,” he says, voice quiet, dangerous._

_“Stiles—”_

_“You even_ helped _her leave you.”_

_Chris is panting, sweating into the grass under his bare feet. He’s so cold._

_“What makes me so different from Victoria that you can accept her decision and not mine?”_

_“There was—”The wind howls. The trees flicker off and on and off and on. “There were no other options with her.”_

_“And there is with me?” Stiles roars, spreading his arms._

_“YES!”_

_The light turns white. The grass disappears. Fluorescents pleat the ceiling, tiles grid the ground. He’s so cold._

_“Where? Where are they, Chris? What can you do? I died! I’m_ gone. _How can you— you feeble_ human _— fix that?”_

_Chris stumbles towards Stiles, reaching out with closed hands._

_Stiles is standing on an old stump, face twisted like ancient gnarled bark._

_“I can help. I can— I can keep you safe.”_

_Stiles laughs, flickers._

_He’s now behind him. Chris whirls. He’s in the woods again. He can never get away from here._

_Stiles stands at the edge of the tree line. There’s a shadow between them._

_“You can't save me.”_

_Chris grits his teeth, hunkering down._

_“I know.”_

_The shadow forms into a constellation, into an animal. Sirius. Black, blaze and maw grizzled._

_“Then why do you keep trying?” Stiles asks, voice soft, inhumanly curious._

_The world flickers like a malformed lightbulb; switching between white room and dark forest. There’s a Stiles in front of him and behind. One and the same. Completely different. Negatives._

_“I’m not.”_

_“I’ve already died. Let me go. Stop trying.”_

_“No.”_

_“Why?”_

_Stiles voice comes from both directions at once. Dolby digital surround sound detachment._

_“I can’t.”_

_The wolf advances._

_Chris raises his fists, preparing to fight._

_There’s something silver in his hand._

_“You can’t save me.”_

_The world flickers, shifts. The wolf is a wolf in the dark and something else in the light. Stiles is a man in the light and something else— somewhere else— in the dark._

_“I know.”_

_“Then why?”_

_Chris says nothing. The wolf laughs, heckles._

_“What makes me different?”_

_Chris shakes his head._

_“You can’t save me.”_

_“I know.”_

_The wolf… thing continues to advance. His blade shines, sings, with the wind._

_“Then why?”_

_The world thrums, throbs._

_Chris raises his blade._

_“Why?”_

_There’s a pounding around him getting louder and louder and louder. It sounds— it sounds like the desperate clawing of a man who has buried himself alive._

_“WHY!” The trees screech._

 

Chris opens his eyes. The room is dark, cold. There’s a breeze that shouldn’t be there.

He sits up, shivering, and looks around his empty room. Chris rubs at his face as he shuffles out of bed and to his open window. 

There’s snow falling from the sky. Rabbits hop in the field across the sidewalk as if it were spring and not cold enough to freeze.

He stands there and watches, listens, hand resting on the crank to close the window. Seconds, or maybe minutes, later, Chris decides to leave it open, decides the cold isn’t so unbearable. 

 

 

 

“The search grid won’t work if Stiles was taken,” Scott says, hands planted on the table. 

Chris stands back, watches, hands palming the phone in his pocket. 

“If it’s Mandeep then we need to find out where he could have possibly taken him,” Stiles’ dad responds. 

Chris leans against the wall and watches their reflections in the window. 

“We can’t track them. The trail is too cold.” 

Chris wonders why they’d even try. Finding the body won’t change the facts. 

“We could do a background check.” 

Lydia this time. 

He should send the phone back, stop payment, Chris thinks as he fingers the power button. Stiles won’t need it. 

“That’s good. We can also see if we can find any known associates. Maybe check his Facebook.” 

Mac shakes her head. 

“It’s set on private.” 

Stiles’ dad curses. 

“What about the letters? Is there any info in them, Scott?”

Scott shakes his head, face turning just the slightest bit red. 

“Nothing we can use.” 

He can’t even unlock the damn thing. Stiles had it password protected. 

 

 

December 23rd is a Tuesday this year. The laundromat is emptier than usual. 

Chris has already been here half an hour but no one else has. That doesn’t matter. 

It could be packed and he’d still feel as if something was missing. 

He sits on their bench in his spot and pages through his phone fruitlessly searching. He won’t find anything. Neither of them ever took any photos and Stiles preferred to talk in person. 

He’s only got two texts from Stiles and he never responded to either of them. The first from when Stiles got his number that says, ‘It’s me.” And the second from when Stiles showed up early at his house for a date. 

Chris had been in the shower when he arrived and didn’t hear the knock. He’d answered the door dripping wet in his towel. Stiles had greeted him with, “Changed my mind. We’re staying in,” and pushed him until his towel fell and he landed on the couch. 

The text says, “I’m here,” and Chris hates the way it lies to him. Stiles isn’t here and he won’t be ever again. 

The washing machine squeaks as it spins his clothes ‘round and ‘round. 

Chris shuts his phone off and pulls out Stiles’. 

He knows he can’t crack the code but it’s the only thing he can do. 

 

 

Christmas Eve passes the same way it has every year since Chris lowered his baby girl into the ground; silent and solitary. Though this time by choice. Mister Stilinski had invited Chris over but he had, for some reason, declined. 

Now he sits, phone off, beer on the coffee table, blinds drawn. 

 

It’s dulled over the years; the brilliant gold turning into a scuffed yellow. It’s kind of ironic, in a way. Considering that gold is called the immortal metal and yet… 

His wedding band shows the years as much as the rest of his hand. 

“It was difference with Victoria,” he says to the world at large, to the empty room. “I got twenty years with her.” 

The ring slides off with deceptive ease. 

The necklace is a simple nickel plated ball chain. 

“It was difference with Allison, too.” 

The ring drops onto the necklace, jangling against a small silver ring. It has Allison’s birthstone on it. She said it was her favorite sweet sixteen present but she’d eyed the crossbow hungrily while she had. 

“I got eighteen years with her.” 

The necklace clasps easily, is cold and surprisingly light. 

“I got maybe two months together with you.” 

Chris picks up his beer left handed and, for the first time in twenty five years, nothing clinks against the sweating glass as he does. 

“Merry Christmas.” 

He downs the beer in one go. 

 

 

“Here,” Chris says, handing Scott the keys to his SUV. 

The kid frowns in confusion as he takes them. 

“You’re letting me borrow your car?”

Chris nods, stuffing his hands into his pockets. 

“Why? Don’t you need it?”

Chris shakes his head, eyes fixed on Mac and Derek preparing ingredients for dinner. 

“You need it.” 

Mac smiles this soft, flighty, thing as Derek cuts chicken. 

“How will you get around without it?” 

Chris smiles because the alternative is to frown. 

“I’ll manage.” 

Chris watches Scott frown harder in the corner of his eye as Mac coats a pan in canola oil and turns on the stove. 

“I can’t acc—”

“You can and you will.” 

Scott’s mouth snaps shut. He breathes. 

“O.K. Thank you.” 

Chris pats Scott on the shoulder and leaves. He doesn’t like to be here, to be in Stiles’ dad’s house. He prefers not to think on why. 

 

 

 

 

There’s a knock on his door right when Chris goes to sit at his desk. He sighs as he pushes himself back up from his chair, knowing who it will be. 

He’s standing there with his hands behind his back when Chris opens the door. 

“What do you want, Paul?” Chris asks, tired already. Sore. 

“Company,” the man says with a fleeting smile. 

“Go get it from one of your floozies,” Chris snaps, already starting to shut the door. 

“I brought drinks. Stiles’ favorite.” 

Chris stills, door halfway to closed. 

Paul holds up a jug of apple cider and a bottle of whiskey. 

“One drink.” 

Paul nods, flashing a quick smile as he shoulders his way inside. 

Chris steps back, liking to keep his distance from Paul. The man is impossibly large. It makes Chris uncomfortable. 

He helps himself to Chris’ kitchen, moving with an ease and familiarity that irks Chris. 

“Here,” Paul says, holding out Stiles’ favored mug to Chris, steaming. 

Chris frowns, taking the drink. It smells like hot apples and cinnamon. He does not ask why he chose to give Chris this particular mug or how Paul knew which one Stiles preferred. He simply takes a sip and lets the drink warm him. 

Paul wanders away from the kitchen and Chris follows, taking a seat on the opposite side of the couch from Paul. 

With no preamble, Paul asks, “Do you ever feel this… emptiness somewhere below your stomach? Like being hungry but not because no food will fill it? And nothing you do can make it go away? It’s just… there until it isn’t?”

Chris doesn't respond, only takes a long gulp of his drink. He can’t say anything, not to Paul of all people, but he feels it more now that there are words for it hovering between them like uninvited guests than he did before. 

It’s there and has been for a while: this emptiness inside of himself that he can’t make go away. He has a feeling it’s not for him to fill anyway but— 

“I used to feel it all the time. I got so used to it that it was more like white noise than anything else. Then I met Stiles and he— he gave me something no one had— Not purpose or anything trite like that, no, it was more like… He _allowed_ me to be fulfilled. It was as if whatever block I had in place to stop this cavern from filling up was removed and I could finally stop feeling so—empty.” 

Chris swallows his feelings and a helping of apple cider and whiskey. There’s a lump in the back of his throat growing because he felt it, too. He knows exactly what Paul is talking about he just never had the words for it before. 

“I can feel it now. This _need_. It’s why I came over,” Paul continues, voice soft. “I couldn’t sleep. I felt too hollow to be able to rest. Do you know what I’m talking about?” 

Paul looks over at Chris, leaning into the distance between them, his brows drawn, and a small frown on his face. 

Chris tries not to nod but does it anyway. He sets his mug down on the coffee table with shaking hands. He knows. 

Oh. 

How he _knows_. 

Chris has spent the entire time Stiles has been gone feeling like that. It doesn’t matter if he’s eaten enough, slept enough, worked himself to fumes of exhaustion, it’s still there. This… ice cold emptiness that he can’t seem to warm no matter how he tries. 

“I do,” Chris says at last, voice rough and breaking. “I know.” 

Paul reaches out, rests his hand on the back of Chris’, and squeezes lightly. 

Chris stares down at their hands, at the difference between them. Paul’s hand dwarfs Chris’, making it seem smaller, more fragile, than it is. 

“He’s so big,” Chris thinks then flushes, remembering what Stiles had said about Paul the time he called when they were at their laundromat. 

He can blame it on the alcohol, he knows, but it’s getting harder to lie to himself. 

“I know you don’t want to hear this,” Paul near whispers, voice as fragile sounding as Chris’ hand looks. “But I loved him. In my own way. He _understood_ better than anyone the way I am. He never— He knew what I was capable of and never asked for more and that _is_ important to me. _He_ is important to me.” 

After a beat, Paul removes his hand, takes a gulp of his drink large enough that Chris hears it. 

“It wasn’t just sex. It was— It was _Stiles._ ” 

Chris nods because he understands, because he’s there now, because _Stiles._

“He may have been demanding and capricious but he also gave, ya know? He… took what he could and gave what he could.” 

Chris is suddenly jealous of the man next to him, of just how much _time_ he had with Stiles, of what he’d never have again. He can’t help it. This burning sensation overtaking him is hot, inescapable. He gets so angry. So very, very, angry of what he wasn’t allowed. And is relieved from the cold because of it.

Blinded by anger and jealousy, Chris lunges at Paul, unable to see anything but Stiles’ face the first time they reunited. How closed off he’d been, reticent and unwelcoming. He’d put money down, as his skin connects with Paul’s, that he never had to work through that like Chris did, that he was never conflicted about being with Stiles. 

Paul grunts. It’s only when his hand cups the back of Chris’ head that he realizes he kissed him instead of punched. 

Chris blinks, vision clearing as he pulls back. 

Paul is frowning as he licks his lips. 

“That wasn’t for me,” Paul says in a sure voice. 

Chris shakes his head. It causes his vision to swim. 

“No. It wasn’t.” 

Paul sighs and looks up at the ceiling. 

“I can’t replace him.” 

“You can’t.” 

“They why—”

“Because maybe we can try to fill the void left behind together. Or. Learn how to live with it again.” 

Paul turns his head to Chris, leans over the space between them, mouth now hovering inches from Chris’. 

“No strings,” Paul reminds him, just like every other time. “No complications. I can’t do romance.” 

Chris kisses him, hard, and fleeting. 

“I don’t want that from you and I never will.” 

Paul laughs as if delighted. 

“Harsh. I can see why Stiles likes you.” 

“Shut up,” Chris hisses and climbs into Paul’s lap. 

Paul’s large hands settle above Chris’ hips. He looks at Chris through the shine of whiskey in his eyes and licks his lips. 

“You don’t want that,” he says confidently. “You want me to fuck you how I fucked Stiles. You want exactly what Stiles had.” 

Chris shakes his head but it’s a lie his heart easily tells. He _wants_ to know. He wants— He wants Stiles. 

Paul pulls Chris’ head down level with his, slides his bottom row of teeth over the underside of Chris jaw slowly. 

“Don’t lie you little whore. You want me to fuck you hard and fast over the nearest surface while I tell you how your boyfriend gave it up like a whore who’s late on rent.” 

Chris shivers, digs his fingers into Paul’s meaty shoulders. He does. It’s wrong. So very, very wrong, but he does. 

Paul mouths at Chris’ neck, hands sliding down and back until they cup his ass.

“The first time we fucked was in my office over my desk. He took my dick like he was born to and come all over a stack of midterms,” Paul begins.

Chris groans at the image, the idea of it, and how wrong this is. Paul’s hands tighten on his ass, pull him close and down so that he’s grinding against him. 

“Little slut didn’t even care that the walls were glass. Just dropped his pants and bent over like it was nothing.” 

“Don’t—” Chris grinds his teeth and hips. “Don’t call him that,” he snaps. 

Paul’s hands move preternaturally fast. There’s a jerk at Chris’ waist and a jagged pop when the fly and button on his jeans break. 

He gasps, back arching from the pain of the action. He doesn't like it. He never has but— but Stiles did. 

“Why? He loves it when I call him names.” 

Chris shakes his head, digs blunt fingernails into Paul’s shoulders trying to hurt, to inflict. 

“Whore,” Paul murmurs, dragging his hands up Chris’ stomach. 

“Slut.” 

Slow, steady, hands pop the buttons on his shirt one by one with each successive word. 

“Slag.” 

“Boy.” 

“Cockwhore.” 

“Catamite.” 

“Gaping… hole.” 

“Painslut.” 

There are no more buttons on Chris’ shirt. He’s panting, half-hard, and biting at Paul’s neck as he jerks away from the man below him. He’s repulsed, disgusted, but just fuzzy enough on whiskey and apple cider, on the imagined taste of Stiles’ mouth after he drinks it, to not care as much as he should. 

Paul pauses, hands hovering against Chris’ ribs. 

“But that’s not what you want,” the man says, voice slow, private. 

Chris opens his mouth to reply and Paul shakes his head, smiling seemingly at himself or someone else Chris can’t see. 

“You want what he’d want in this situation; you want to know what I’d do for him if he came to me like this,” Paul continues, voice dropping along with his hands. “He was like that, too, you know.” 

Chris hasn’t a clue what Paul means by that, is about to say so when a shift comes over Paul that startles him. There are probably words to describe how Paul changes but Chris doesn’t have them— only has the sweet taste of burnt apples and the ghost of an image of Stiles’ hair hanging in his face, an ironic smile half obscured, so instead he gasps and clutches at Paul’s meaty neck as he stands, slow, careful, deliberate. 

His predatory demeanor of seconds before slides off like rainwater. His hands are gentle but firm where they cradle Chris to him, his mouth moves fluidly over Chris’ jaw to his ear. One or both of them grunt when they hit the wall, Chris’ legs wrapping around him without his volition. 

They kiss. 

It’s long, thorough, unhurried. 

When Paul breaks it, it’s to pin Chris to the wall with his hips and tug his shirt the rest of the way off and remove his own. 

Chris decidedly does not help. 

“If you want, you can pretend I’m someone else,” Paul says and mouths at his neck, trailing up and up. Chris shakes his head, knowing he can’t, knowing he won’t, knowing it doesn’t help. 

It didn’t before and he doubts it would now. 

Stiles is dead, Chris knows. Tree or otherwise, he’s gone and no amount of pretending will delay or reverse it. Scott may be optimistic, infecting everyone around him with his naive beliefs, but Chris knows the consequences of denying the truth. 

All it gets is cold bodies and empty rooms. 

Instead of pretending, imagining some fantasy that’s unobtainable and inevitably painful, he focuses on the feel of Paul’s mouth as it tugs on his ear, the press of hands against him, and the solid wall behind him. 

“You want me to fuck you,” Paul asks. 

It’s more a statement than a question so Chris doesn’t respond, just tilts away, rolling his hips, and trusting in the strength of a man whose word means nothing to him. 

“Just get on with it.” 

Paul grins, hefting Chris briefly up, before turning them so fast that Chris’ vision blurs into a whiskey colored swirl. 

“So snarky. I like it.” 

Chris decidedly doesn’t think on who gave Paul that acquired taste as he bites down on skin.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Summary is from Silver Coin by Angus and Julia Stone.   
> There's not much more now. Just so you know. There's probably only going to be another, oh, three? Three chapters? I haven't decided on exactly how many or how to block the whole thing. So it could be anywhere from two more to five more chapters.   
> I will probably 100% not post next week because I'm going to a convention and doing a panel there so I'll probably be too busy but maybe the week after if I don't get distracted.


	34. River Lea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To no man does the earth mean so much as to the soldier. When he presses himself down upon her long and powerfully, when he buries his face and his limbs deep in her [...] then she is his only friend, his brother, his mother, he stifles his terror and his cries in her silence and security; she shelters him and releases him for ten seconds to live, to run, ten seconds of life; receives him again and often forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I could say I have a bunch of legitimate excuses for not posting sooner and they'd all be true but really, there's no good reason for me to not work on my writing. Which I know. I will say a bunch of shit has happened recently that I had to deal with including: one of my man friend's fiancee cheating on him, my new house guest and her son, becoming another man friend's groomsman, my brother having to be hospitalized again, and... maybe a love interest? well. I'll just say it's been a weirdly eventful few weeks.   
> I'm going to have to force myself to get back to regular posting and back into my habit of writing for at least a couple hours a day.

“Dead?”

Chris nods, fingers fidgeting with a pack of cigarets Stiles left on the trunk. 

“Presumed.” 

Topher leans back, hands coming up to his head. His eyes are wide, shocky even. 

“Jesus.” 

Chris refrain from snorting, and saying, “Not quite,” but it’s a close one. 

“It was some time ago. I would have told you sooner but you were unreachable.”

Topher nods, sliding his hands down to cover his face. 

“I can’t believe it. I mean It’s _Stiles_ …” 

Chris nods, clears his throat. 

“I can, uh… I can have his stuff packed by Wednesday.” 

Topher shakes his head. 

“Take all the time you need, man. I know… it’s probably not easy for you— Lord knows it won’t be for me.” 

Chris shifts on his feet, trying not to see Stiles sleeping in the exact same spot that Topher now sits in. 

“It’s fine. I’m sure you’ll be wanting to fill the space.” 

Topher laughs and the walls, already so full of sounds and sights and scents, absorb it without the trace of an echo. 

“It’s not gonna be easy filling Stiles’ shoes.” 

 

It’s not his birthday. It’s not his dad’s, or Scotts, Lydia’s, Allison’s, or his mom’s. Chris palms Stiles’ phone as the washing machine beeps, feeling a sense of defeat. He doesn’t know what four number code it could be but he thinks, believes, _wishes_ , that unlocking it will bring him… something. It, like its owner, eludes Chris at every turn. 

 

“I know he’d want it,” Mac says, standing on his doorstep with a sorry look in her eyes, a small cage thrust out in her hands. 

Chris should say she should keep them but… a memory of Stiles’ face as he stroked his fingers through their fur stops him. He wants that. 

He wants to see that face one more time. 

Chris accepts them, spends the afternoon getting a crash course on rat care and, when Mac takes her leave with a hesitant hug and a farewell to his new furred roommates, he sits on his couch and listens to little feet scamper around his home, and tries not to imagine Stiles sprawled out on the floor, fingers scratching at the floor as he talks softly, melodically, to his rodent friends. 

 

_“I keep dreaming about you.”_

_Chris props himself up in bed. Sunlight pours through the window, overexposing everything in sight._

_“I say these things like I know what’s going on but they don’t make sense to me.”_

_Stiles is next to him, staring intently at him._

_“And then I wake up with this urge like I need to leave, go, walk until—”_

_Chris frowns, stretching his arm over Stiles’ stomach._

_“Until what?”_

_Stiles smiles, brushing fingers down the side of Chris’ face._

_“I don’t know. It just— seems important. I think I m—”_

Chris flinches, jerking his foot off the floor. He looks down. 

Ed blinks up at him, face innocent. 

“Little shit.” 

Ed stands up, reaching with his… hands? For Chris. 

He sighs and scoops Ed up, sliding down the couch until he’s on his side, Ed cradled against his chest. Chris scratches behind his little pink ear. 

“Happy?”

Ed begins to grind his teeth in response and Chris tries not to cringe. 

Mac had assured him, at three a.m. on a Tuesday, that this simply meant that Ed was pleased. His tiny skull vibrates under Chris’ finger from the force of his grinding. 

“At least one of us is.” 

Ed curls up, tail loosely wrapped around the arm supporting him, and rests his head under Chris’ thumb. 

 

“Thanks for coming,” Chris says, stepping over the hay jidey-hole in the middle of his living room. 

“Yeah. It’s no problem,” Mac responds, crouching down. She scratches at the floor and calls Wyn’s name in between making this kissing noise. 

Chris scoops Ed up when he comes bounding out from under the couch and waits. 

It takes what feels like hours but is probably only minutes for Wyn to appear, slow, and skittish. 

“He hasn’t been eating?” Mac asks but the answer is obvious in the way his spine curves out from his body, in how distinct his ribs are. 

“Yeah. I don’t know why. He hasn’t sneezed or made those noises you described. He just sleeps and doesn’t eat or drink no matter what I do.” 

Mac coos, petting Wyn, face crumpling a little bit. 

“You poor boy,” she croons, setting Wyn in her lap. “First your brother then your human… You can’t take it, can you?”

Ed squirms in Chris’ hands, wiggles out of his grasp and climbs his arm to perch on his shoulder. 

“What’s wrong with him?” Chris asks as Ed’s whiskers tickle his ear. 

Mac looks up at him, a sad smile on her face. 

“Heartbreak.” 

Something plummets in his stomach, dead rat heavy. 

“What can I do?”

Mac sighs, stroking Wyn’s ears. 

“Nothing, really. Just… try to get him to eat, give him company and hope that— that the loss isn’t too much for him.” 

Mac returns her attention to Wyn, talks quietly to him, pets him. Chris stands and watches, tries not to scream and throw things, lets Ed nibble on the collar of his shirt. 

Briefly, he considers cursing Stiles and his decision to keep such fragile creatures but dismisses the thought as too hypocritical. 

 

 

“Come on, baby. Just…” 

Chris turns the key again. 

“Just go. Come on.” 

The Jeep whines but doesn’t turn over. 

Chris sighs and leans back. He watches snow gather on the windshield, his breath fog. It’s no use, he knows. It’s two degrees outside and not even Chris wanted to get up in this weather. He pulls the keys out of the ignition and sets them on the passenger seat. So much for going grocery shopping. 

On a whim, he lights a cigaret from the pack he found in the glove box. He doesn’t smoke it, just watches it burn as smoke fills the car. If he closes his eyes, he can pretend that Stiles is sitting next to him, smoking, maybe reading. 

It helps, somewhat, but also makes him… want, long, for something he can never have again. 

When the cigaret has burnt down to the filter, he tries again. 

The engine turns over, rumbles unhappily. Chris smiles, imaging that even inanimate objects miss Stiles. 

 

 

“You’re being very quiet,” Sabrina says, sitting down next to him in the sherif’s living room. 

Chris shoves Stiles’ phone into his pocket. 

“What’s there to say?”

Sabrina tucks a stray hair behind her ear and shrugs. 

“I can’t tell you what to say. It’s just not usual for you to be so quiet.” 

Chris clenches his jaw, breathes quietly through his nose and out his mouth. 

She smiles. 

“You picked that up from—”

_“Don’t.”_

 

_“Wish I had a mango tree in my backyard.”_

_Chris turns onto his side, grass tickling where his shirt has ridden up._

_“What’re you singing?”_

_Stiles shrugs, a beetle crawling over his knuckles._

_“I don’t know. I—” he frowns, the beetle stumbling across the back of his hand. “I don’t remember.”_

_He hums a little more, the sun cooling Chris’ exposed skin._

_“I’ve forgotten so much,” Stiles says, holding his hand out so the beetle can crawl across Chris’ shoulder. “Sometimes, I think I remember but it’s impossible to hold onto. It leaves like a hazy dream. Everything but— but your face.”_

_Chris closes his eyes, pained, in the cold light of morning._

_Fingers, warm and soft like wings, touch his face._

_“Why do I dream of you?”_

Chris wakes, breathing in a startled breath. When he opens his eyes, Wynn is there, staring at him, ears down, breathing fast. 

The air smells like Newports and torn branches. 

“I know,” Chris says, reaching out to cup Wynn’s shrinking body under his hand. “Me too.” 

Wynn’s paw grabs weakly at Chris’ finger, his little tongue coming out just once to kiss Chris. Wynn begins then to groom Chris, sluggishly taking each of his fingers in turn, cleaning them, nibbling away dead skin. He lies there and watches. 

 

 

“Where do you think you’re going?” Paul asks, hands in his pockets. 

Chris sneers, hefts a box into his trunk. 

“Your spies not tell you?”

He’d seen one of them, not very subtly watching from North Meramec when he was handed the keys to his new place. 

Paul shrugs his massive shoulders. 

“Want some help?”

He considers turning him down, he does, but… he can’t carry a couch on his own. 

Chris nods. Paul grins. 

It’ll be better this way, Chris thinks. It’ll mean spending less time here where the memory of Stiles drifts in the air like the scent of stale cigarets and burnt coffee. 

 

 

 

Chris stands in the middle of his living room, shifting from foot to foot. Now that he’s done unpacking, he doesn’t know what to do. His furniture is all in place, his clothes unpacked, hung up, or folded and put away. The odds and ends he’s gathered over the years have all been placed away carefully. His desk is set up, paperwork away, important documents in the safe, weapons stashed, and now, with all that done, he has nothing to do except stand in his new living room and survey how little his belongings changed with the change in scenery. 

Wynn squeaks, rattling the closed door to his cage. 

“Alright,” he huffs, walking over to the corner of the living room where he set them up, opening the bottom floor door. It swings down, tapping against his new hardwood floor. 

Ed is out like a shot, scurrying under the couch. Wynn comes slowly but surely. Hesitating when his paw touches wood, sniffing so loud Chris can hear it. 

“I know,” Chris responds, sitting down with his back to the cage. “It smells nothing like him here.” 

Wynn crawls into his lap, huffs, and curls up. Chris pets him until he falls asleep. 

 

 

Sitting on his new patio, Chris watches finches flit from branch to branch. They’re out of season, he knows— This time of year belongs to the cardinals— but he appreciates how their iridescent black/green feathers contrast against the white sky and the car-grease gray of the snow. 

He’s beginning to enjoy his new apartment. It’s quiet in Clayton, the area already hip-deep in its own gentrification. It looks completely different than the last time he lived in the area. It’s charming in a hipster way. 

Chris sips his coffee, watches snow drop from tree branches disturbed by small flighty things, clinging to the area well beyond their time. 

Stiles, he thinks, would have enjoyed it here. Good sidewalks, lots of flora and fauna, nearby woods, lotsof businesses within walking distance. Plus his apartment complex is split level; his particular unit being slightly underground, his patio a depressed square of quaint bricks half a floor below street level. It looks private, enclosed. Stiles would have enjoyed smoking here, writing his letters, or watching the birds. 

It could have been peaceful, living here. 

 

 

“This could be a lead,” Stiles’ dad says, eyes bright. “This could be a real lead.” 

Chris curls his fingers into fists on his thighs under the table, eyes fixed on the print outs Scott spread out across the table. 

“It seems slim,” Sabrina hedges, playing with a strand of her bruise colored hair. 

“It’s _not_ though,” Scott insists. “Mandeep’s parents have dual citizenship. They only spend half the year in the US. _Someone_ has to watch their house when they’re gone.” 

The picture is black and white but it’s easy to see the paint on the house isn’t white. It could be yellow. There’s foliage surrounding the clapboard, the porch is obviously a wrap around. 

“That could be Mandeep’s truck right there,” Scott hisses frantically, jamming a finger against the paper where half a tailgate shows. “We _have_ to check it out.” 

Everyone at the table chitters and haws together, excited over this development. Chris simply feels numb, his brain an empty buzz. He knows, down to his bones, it won’t matter. This isn’t a fairy tale; they won’t find Stiles there, comatose under plexiglass while woodland creatures care for him and await a princely kiss of his one true love. 

This changes nothing. 

 

 

“We can take Amtrak right from downtown to Chicago. Get a rental when we arrive?” 

Derek shakes his head. 

“Snow might knock out the route. We don’t want to lose that much time.” 

“We could fly?” 

Chris leans back against the wall, grinding his teeth. 

“Yeah. It’s quicker. There’ll be rentals right there.” 

Chris snorts. He can’t help it. They’re all being so naive about this. 

Derek raises his eyebrows, two large dark caterpillars of sass migrating north to avoid the winter in his eyes, and crosses his arms. 

“Do you have something to add?” 

“That won’t work,” is what Chris says. 

“Why not?” 

Scott frowns, confused. 

“How are you going to get him back? Assuming he’s there and alive. His driver’s license is gone and wouldn’t work anyway, his passport expired years ago, and he has no other ID. Or what? Check him like baggage? He can’t fly but, more importantly, he won’t.” 

“Then we’ll take the train,” Mac chimes in, voice slow. 

Chris shakes his head. 

“They ID too. And again, if he’s not… conscious, there will be some questions.” 

Scott throws his arms into the air, huffs, “Fine. We’ll drive,” as if that settles it. 

“I can’t go,” Paul pipes in. “Neither can Mac.” 

Lydia frowns. So does Chris. He doubts they do for the same reason. 

“Why?” 

Paul shrugs, strangely affable as always. 

“A couple of places along the way belong to packs that were not on my side.” 

“Will this cause us any trouble? You are hosting us…” 

Derek this time, voice soft, impatient. 

“Probably not. I’d bring Sabrina along though. Just in case.” 

Chris snaps his eyes to Sabrina. She stills, a bruise of hair wrapped around a finger. 

“Why Sabrina?” 

“She has claim to him.” 

Everyone stills, Chris included. 

“Him being my son isn’t enough?” 

Paul shrugs, says, “Probably not.” 

Chris is still looking at Sabrina, at her downturned face. 

“Why?” 

Scott sounds beyond perplexed. 

“Because,” Chris pauses, clears his throat. “Stiles is his mother’s child. He belongs to her and the wilds. No one is going to recognize a human’s claim on an inhuman adult no matter the relation.” 

There’s the quiet sound of noise tearing itself free from a father’s throat, pinging through the room like freshly torn open grief.

“He’s my _son_. Mine. I— _he’s my child._ ”

Chris says nothing, does nothing, but watch Sabrina’s bottom lip firm into a solid line, a blotchy flush spread over her dark cheeks that clashes with her hair. 

“It doesn’t matter,” Chris could say. “The powers that be don’t recognize humanity.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title is the title of an Adele song. The summary comes from All Quiet on the Western Front. Next chapter is the last one for Chris. Now, if you'll excuse me, there's a pitcher of iced coffee and an anthology of early modern english literature sitting on my patio table and I intend to consume as much of both as possible while the weather is still nice.


	35. Slow and Steady

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The lights go out, I am all alone All the trees outside are buried in the snow I spend my night dancing with my own shadow And it holds me and it never lets me go ... My dear old friend, take me for a spin Two wolves in the dark, running in the wind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow... has it been a while. Currently, I am in the landlord's house, house sitting for him and Withani while they both go have newlywed fun at Interfuse. It's nice. Peaceful. Strangely got me out of the funk I was in to be in the place where I started this story.  
> Sorry if it's a little choppy. I'm not 100% pleased with this chapter. It was oddly difficult to write for some reason and I can't figure out what's making it feel so lopsided. Feedback to get that corrected would certainly not be met with angry pitch forks and violent villagers. I have never had a beta for my writing and it has certainly suffered from this.

The morning is mercilessly frozen, birds chilled silent, the sky an icy blue. Chris has a lit cigaret between numb fingers that he flicks the butt of with the nail of his thumb without breathing it in as he watches Derek and Sabrina load the back of his SUV. 

No one is speaking, bodies all as tight as the squirrel’s who watches attentively from halfway down the trunk of a tree twenty paces away. 

The screen door screeches open as Scott steps out, brow furrowed. 

“Has anyone seen Lydia?”

A pregnant silence. 

Chris sighs. 

“I’ll go get her,” he says, pushing off of his perch. 

 

The snow had, at some point before today, partially melted then refroze so the ground is slick, crunchy, and, in certain areas, more oddly shaped ice than ground. 

Chris treads carefully, cigaret still in hand. It’s luck, or at least chance, that the hills between him and… Stiles are mostly gentle with enough trees to brace against when the terrain becomes steep. 

By the time he's made it through, the cold air has split his knuckles, the blood freezing like tiny shards of glass into the back of his hands. 

Lydia glows, flush with life, a hard pink, her hair more akin to autumn leaves with the sun behind them than hair. It makes it seem as if her head were gently on fire. _Persephone’s damned crown_ , his mind provides and he is unable to shake this thought as he steps beyond the trees, his eyes stinging.

“Lydia.” 

She begins to hum, swaying to nonexistent music. 

Chris slowly, carefully, approaches. 

“Through my eyes I can see a shootin’ star, weavin’ its way across the sea.”

Chris reaches out, breath held. 

“Lydia?”

“It’s down the street we would run to, scratch our names into the sun wheels upon the tar. I said you do.” 

He touches her shoulder, still not breathing, afraid to. 

“I said you do.” 

 

The world explodes into white like snow falling violently in reverse. 

 

Chris is panting, hand clenched hard on a shoulder that’s barely there. The world is white white white save for a crooked sapling barely two and a half decades old. The wind wheezes, sings at him with the sounds of tired wings. 

_“I’ll never find my way home… There’s one missing part of me and I’m afraid it’s fine on its own.”_

“I won’t give up on you,” Chris snarls at the wind, at the red birds perched like leaves on the tree. “I won’t.” 

_“Dust can turn into mud,”_ it sings. 

Drifts of snow wolves nip at the roots of the tree, weakening it, turning it mortal. 

“ _Take it back,_ ” it hums, hisses, “ _Take it back. TAKE IT BACK.”_

“No.”

Chris clenches his free hand around air, around cold, shiny metal. A hand sword, a dagger, a blade of iron and silver that burns and cools at once. 

The wind tries again, changing tunes. 

“ _Please just let me go now. Please just let me go. Would you please just let me go now?”_

Chris hacks at the snow, at the wolves that howl from below, at the dull icicle teeth that snap at his roots. 

“ _I’m going to get you. I’m going to get you. I’ve gotta get you out of my head— get out!”_

Chris tightens his grip, teeth bared, panting. He’s cut himself from holding on too tight. Blood drips from his palm, cardinal sin red. 

“Make me,” he whispers back, chest tightening. 

 

Silence. 

 

 

 

The wind stops. 

 

 

Color bleeds back into the world. 

 

 

“Chris?” a shaky voice asks. 

Chris nods, swallows, releases his hold on Lydia’s shoulder. 

“What was that?” 

Chris shakes his head, doesn’t answer. 

“It’s time to go.” 

“But— the tree. Stiles. He’s…”

Chris looks up at the tree slowly, carefully, tacitly afraid.

The leaves aren’t green anymore. They’re red, yellow, orange; a multi-colored skein of autumn. 

“What does it mean?” Lydia whispers, reaching out with soft, gentle hands. 

“Nothing.” 

Chris unclenches his right hand. It’s sticky from blood. 

Something shifts against his palm. He looks down, uncurling his fingers. 

Lydia gasps. 

“It’s not blood,” Chris murmurs, surprised. 

Sticky, orange, and as thick as the lump in his throat. His hand begins to tingle. 

With his thumb, he pushes into the sap until his thumbnail hits the dark line under it. He can’t feel his hand at all. The tingling migrates, spreads up his arm as the sap melts away or gets absorbed into his skin. Maybe it drips onto the dirt. Chris doesn’t care, doesn’t notice.

“What—” Lydia breathes in deep. “What the fuck, Chris?” 

Nestled neatly into a cut on his palm, is a small metal pendant. It’s made of a shiny dull iron. He’s seen it before— around Stiles’ neck, the dull point grazing Chris’ chest as Stiles hovered above him, thin red scars in its shape on Stiles’ chest, the exact number and position of them always changing. 

Chris smiles, digs his index and thumb finger into the wound around it and pulls. 

It comes easily but slow, dragging out of his palm. There’s the sensation of something tugging on his ulna and then— then it’s free, cord and all. 

The wound wells in its absence with sap until it’s full then hardens. 

It stings when he flexes his fingers, burns. 

“What an asshole,” Chris huffs out, grinning. 

He slides the pendent on. It’s heavy, heavier than it should be. 

“ _What the shit?_ ” Lydia hisses, eyes wide. 

Chris’ whole arm is numb, tinging, like it fell asleep. He wonders briefly if he’s having a heart attack then laughs, amused at the idea that Stiles would be the literal death of him. 

“ _What the shit?”_ Lydia asks again softly and with feeling. 

 

 

 

“Car cut in between us but I can still see you,” Stiles’ dad’s voice crackles on the walkie. 

Chris clicks talk on the walkie, holds it up. 

“Copy. We’re coming to the bridge soon.” 

“Received.” 

It’s silent again. 

Scott fidgets in the passenger seat. 

Ten seconds. 

He fidgets again. 

Chris sighs. 

Scott tugs on his seatbelt, squirms. 

“What?” Chris hisses. They’re only forty minutes in and he’s already done with this whole thing. 

“You smell like him.” 

Chris breathes in sharply, lets it out slow, and says nothing. 

“What happened? Out in the woods?” 

Chris shakes his head. 

“Nothing. It doesn’t matter.” 

For a moment, a small fraction ofa second, the pendent is lighter, doesn’t pull itself any direction. Chris refrains from smiling. 

“I can tell you’re lying,” Scott mutters, crossing his arms. 

Chris huffs, tightening his grip on the wheel, keeping his eyes straight ahead. 

“Tell me if I’m lying now: I’m not going to talk about it.” 

Scott is silent for seven seconds. 

“No.” 

There’s the creaking sound of an old leather jacket then Derek’s head in between them. 

“What if it’s important?” 

Chris shakes his head, fixing his eyes on the taillights of a semi. 

“Put your seatbelt back on.” 

“I’ll survive.” 

“My windshield won’t.” 

Derek sits back down. 

 

 

They stop for lunch after passing what could either be the twentieth cornfield or the midway point of the first cornfield. Chris decides to hate Illinois. No plot of land should be considered a state when it’s ninety-eight percent corn, one percent town, and two percent irritating references about Lincoln. 

The table is tense, quiet, as they wait for their server. The Cracker Barrel is an unfortunately apt name for the restaurant they’re in, Chris thinks as he looks around. Just a barrel full of crackers.

“They seriously don’t have Black Bear Diners here?”

Derek picks up his roll of silverware. 

“It’s mostly a west coast thing, Black Bear.” 

Slumping over her glass of water, Lydia mutters, “Illinois sucks.” 

Chris laughs. 

 

 

 

It’s tired radio silence the last fifteen minutes as they wind through copse after copse of frozen trees just north of Chicago. Chris’ right hand aches something fierce and has left sticky residue all over the wheel. Even with it, Chris is prepared to drive the six plus hours back to Arnold with the solitary goal of punching a tree. He knows Stiles won't feel it but it just might be the catharsis he’s looking for. Especially with the pendant pushing so hard against his sternum that he feels as if he might not be able to breath. He can tell precisely which way is South without looking because of it. 

“This is it,” Lydia breathes out. “This is the house I saw.” 

The house is larger than Chris expected, so used to the narrow squat buildings of Saint Louis. It’s a soft pastel yellow, the majority of the porch screened in and furnished with wide wicker chairs. It looks like it might be a peaceful place to be; restful and tranquil.

Chris parks behind a cobalt blue truck, blocking it in. 

By the time both cars are emptied, Mandeep is standing on his porch, an oversized red hoodie on, thick gray flannel pajama pants sticking out below him. His feet are bare and his eyes are red. 

Mandeep sniffs, slumping against a support beam with a watery smile. 

“He’s not here,” The man calls out, fingers visibly digging into his own ribs as he hugs himself. 

“What do you mean, ‘he’s not here’?” Stiles’ father shouts. 

Derek, Scott, and Lydia all begin to advance on Mandeep, Stiles’ father leading them. 

Chris stays still and looks— really looks— at the man before him. 

He’s been crying, that much Chris can tell. They were quiet tears. The kind that don’t require muffling; heavy, silent, hopeless. There’s mud caking his bare feet and the bottom of his pants are wet. 

Chris feels a momentary bout of commiseration with Mandeep. 

Fingers curl into the cuff of his coat. Chris looks over at Sabrina. Her electric purple brows are drawn down in distress, eyes fixed ahead even with her fingers tugging at his sleeve like a child.

“He left,” Chris states, looks in time to see Mandeep nod. “When?” 

Mandeep runs fingers through his hair, longer now than when Chris knew him. 

“This morning.” 

A noise rends the air full of grief and helplessness. It startles birds from trees, sends them flocking back the way Chris and the others came. Stiles’ father falls to the snow covered ground when the noise finishes erupting from him. 

“Where did—” Chris clears his throat. “Where did he go?” 

Mandeep shrugs, sniffles again, his thin frame shivering in the cold. 

“He didn’t say. He just… said that he couldn’t stay and left.” 

Derek shakes his head, continues to advance on Mandeep. 

“Why did you take him? Why— Why didn’t you give him back?!”

Mandeep shrinks away, backing up until Derek has him caged against the front door. 

“WHY?” Derek roars, shaking him. 

“I—”

“What did you do? Why did you steal him?” 

“I—”

“Why!”

“I love him!” Mandeep screams. “I wanted— I wanted to take care of him! I… I wanted him back.” Mandeep sinks to the ground, covering his face, shoulders shaking, hair obscuring his face. “I wanted him to love me again.” 

Chris inhales, breath catching cold as daggers as Mandeep shudders out sobs. Sabrina curls into Chris, tucking herself against his side. He wraps his arms around her, feeling fully for the first time, some strange kinship between this purple woman and the miserable ball of a man on the porch.

“I loved him so much. I— I needed— him. I—”

Noise escapes Chris fast and unstoppable. He covers his mouth with both hands above Sabrina’s head. He can’t keep it in. He can’t stop it.

Involuntarily, Chris laughs, but it feels like weeping. Sabrina holds him tighter, murmurs words he doesn’t care to hear against his chest.

 

 

Mandeep floats across his kitchen with inattentive care, coffee for all balanced on a simple wood tray, aglet to his sweatshirt disappearing into his mouth. Everyone is silent as Mandeep serves the group with a strange properness. He even uses tiny tongs to serve sugar cubes. If Mandeep weren’t who he was, Chris would think it endearing; how he plays house for them but the thought brings Stiles back into his mind and the idea of being endeared to Mandeep becomes as anachronistic as the scene before him. It’s mildly surreal, this table tableau.

Chris resists the urge to snicker and fidgets with his newly acquired pendant. 

Stiles’ dad clears his throat when Mandeep sits himself at the head of the table. 

“How long was he here?” 

The drawstring shifts to the corner of Mandeep’s mouth, accenting his frown. 

“From the first day.” 

“How was he? Was he… present?” 

Mandeep shakes his head. 

“He slept for a week. When he woke he… He didn’t remember anything.” 

Mandeep’s eyes flick to Chris then down to his china tea cup of coffee. 

“You let him leave? Like that? Not knowing anything?” Scott hisses. 

Someone’s teacup rattles against the saucer. 

“He wanted to go. I wasn’t— I wasn’t going to force him to stay…” 

Chris barks out a laugh at the hypocrisy of that. He opens his mouth to say something but Sabrina lays her hand on his wrist. He closes his mouth, doesn’t brush her off. He can’t. Not now. Not with everything being as it is and she being who she was to Stiles. 

“Where did he go?” 

Mandeep rolls his lips into his mouth. 

“South. I think.” 

“You think?” Derek asks, disbelief plain to the table at large. 

Mandeep nods, sips his coffee. 

“Thats the direction I saw him go.” 

“But?” Stiles’ dad this time, prodding, searching. 

Mandeep looks up, makes eye contact with Chris, the drawstring dropping wet and mangled from his mouth. 

“He took three steps into the woods and was _gone._ ” Mandeep’s eye’s are wide, astounded, scared. “You saw those woods. No brush, no leaves, trees spread wide apart. I should have seen him for a hundred yards. He took three steps and I couldn’t see him, hear him, or smell him.” 

“He could have hidden?”

Mandeep shakes his head, abandoning his coffee on the table to hug himself. 

_“There’re no tracks in the snow._ ”

“When was this? How long ago?” Lydia asks. 

Mandeep frowns harder, looking down then over to the grandfather clock against the wall. 

“Six? Maybe seven hours ago?”

Chris stops breathing. His heart may even pause. He drops the pendent as if it burns and it swings heavy, heavier than it has before, knocking against his sternum so strongly it may bruise. Sabrina digs nails into the soft under-side of his wrist. She may also bruise. 

“Are you sure? _Are you sure?”_

Mandeep nods, shrugs. 

“I wake up early. I usually get up at six, make breakfast, then wake Stiles at seven. He came downstairs when I went to go wake him and—”

Mandeep pauses, rolling his lips into his mouth again before taking up the drawstring of his sweatshirt and placing the aglet back between his teeth. 

“And what?”

“He was weird again. Kinda… not there. Singing to himself a bunch of different songs.. I’ve seen him—” Here Mandeep makes a gesture Chris has seen in Nicholas Cage’s Face Off. “You know— before but this was… Different. He, he was different. So I let him go.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last of it for Chris. Next section will be the last section for this. 
> 
> Fun fact: originally, I had planned for there to only be one chapter after Stiles dies. It was going to be centered on Chris and Stiles' body not being found would never be addressed. They would all grieve him, Chris would move on, and Stiles' body would just have been... out there doing whatever a body does.
> 
> Maybe months or years later, I'd write a sequel about the body probably titled The Body to reference the same titled episode from BTVS. It would have been extremely depressing and focused on feelings of emptiness, loneliness, and would lack any happy resolution. I'd toyed with it ending in the body deciding to, ah, cease it's functioning on the anniversary of Stiles' death at which time, maybe minutes or hours later, Chris would show up to find the body beneath the tree. 
> 
> But I kinda started to like y'all and I honestly didn't feel like I could be enough of a dick to do that. Plus then I'd have to update the tags. 
> 
>  
> 
> Back to business. Title and summary for this chapter come from Slow and Steady by Of Monsters and Men. 
> 
>  
> 
> Challenge round: if anyone can guess whose point of view the next chapters will be in, I'll fill a prompt for you.


	36. Hung Out to Dry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Flowers of the deeper soil, loved by all roots, you…full of holy return behind the ascending man. We, afflicted by ourselves, gladly afflicting, gladly needing to be afflicted. We, who sleep with our anger laid beside us like a knife. You, who are almost protection where no one protects. The thought of you is a shade-giving tree of sleep for the restless creatures of a solitary man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So.... Darren, my rat, died. My fridge died. My work has created a new torture device called "Mandatory overtime," and The Wife came to Saint Louis and visited me. I am still sorry for the lack of updates. 
> 
> Also: Absolutely no one guessed who the next section's POV would be so no one got the prize.

_"Then why?"_

 

_The world thrums, throbs._

 

_A man raises his hand, his blade._

 

_"Why?"_

 

There's a pounding around him, through him. His head aches. He needs to know.

 

_"Why!"_

 

"Hey, sleepyhead. Breakfast is ready."

 

There's three more knocks. Stiles breathes in deep, opens his eyes, and sits up.

 

"Be down," he says quietly. Mandeep can always hear him. Stiles doesn't know why.

 

He sits for a few moments, staring down at his hands. They shake. Just slightly. Slowly, carefully, he moves his fingers, feels the skin stretch, the scabs crack. He doesn't pick at them. Mandeep said it would make the scars worse. Instead, he stands, pulls the bedding off the bed, bundles up the whole lot, trying to ignore the sticky tacky red-orange bits, and throws them out into the hall. Mandeep will pick them up later and replace them.

 

 

 

The stairs are difficult. Especially this early in the morning when his joints are stiff and the sheets have rubbed at his scabs all night long. Every step is accompanied with a sudden, sharp sting, and the tack of old blood clinging to him. it's almost enough to push out the dream that's still ringing in his ears. Almost.

 

He doesn't know why he dreams of the man. He doesn't know him when he's awake. Dreaming is another matter, though. The way he is in the dreams is as if... as if some part of him recognizes the man, knows him intimately. He says things-- does things-- that he doesn't have the context for. Mandeep says it's just his brain trying to make sense of his accident in dreams, that he's unconsciously making connections that aren't real in the void of his memory. He always says it with this pinched look and shifting eyes.

 

"Morning, sleepyhead.”

 

Stiles grunts, sits down at his spot at the kitchen table. 

“Sleep well?”

Stiles shrugs, picks up a glass of orange juice set out on the table. 

Mandeep sits next to him like always. 

“Nightmares?”

In response, Stiles makes a noncommittal noise. 

“You gotta stop worrying about it so much,” Mandeep murmurs, sliding his hand across the table to touch Stiles’. “You need to heal and the stress won’t help.”

Stiles shakes his head and picks up his fork. He doesn’t disagree and he knows Mandeep is trying to help but what else has he to do but obsess over the black of his own mind?

 

 

A radio plays softly in the kitchen, sunlight slides in the small bathroom window, birds call just outside intermittently. Mandeep hums softly along with it all as Stiles sits naked, still, quiet, damp. Mandeep slowly, carefully, thoroughly, runs a wash cloth over Stiles’ uneven skin. His sleeves are rolled up, feet bare, smile small as his eyes follow his hands across Stiles. 

The bathroom is weird, Stiles assumes. The bathing area is large ceramic, big enough to fit five comfortably. There’s a long shower hose, a faucet, and a foot tall wall separating it from the rest of the room. Both of them are sitting on squat plastic stools. 

“How did we meet?”

Mandeep’s hand pauses briefly, barely for a second. 

“I found you,” he says, quietly, vehemently. “I found you on the side of the road. You were sleep walking.” 

Stiles stares down at his toes, at the thin crooked slices in them. 

“Then?”

He can hear Mandeep’s smile in his voice. 

“Then you called me a little while after that stuck out thirty miles from your house. I gave you a ride and you hit on me. The rest is history.” 

Mandeep laughs, light, sugary. 

Stiles taps his toes against the bath’s floor, tilts his head back when Mandeep asks, and squeezes his eyes shut as water pours down on him. 

 

 

Snow falls thick and loud, a heavy subtle sound that bends tree branches and quiets the wildlife. Faintly, Stiles can hear the dryer run, squeak as it churns. His toes are numb, feet hot from the cold, fingers useless twigs. The wicker bench makes high pitched groans when Stiles shifts. 

The back door opens with a creak.

“Honey, it’s cold. Come inside.” 

Stiles says nothing, watches his breath fog. 

Mandeep sighs. 

The door shuts. 

He watches a rabbit, cotton tailed and scrawny, shuffle tiredly through the snow. 

The door opens. 

The rabbit startles, flees. 

Footsteps. 

A blanket settles, heavy and warm from the dryer, across Stiles’ shoulders. The bench complains when Mandeep sits next to him, drags the blanket around them both. 

“Here,” Mandeep says, holding out his hand. 

A red and white box and a lighter. 

“I smoke?”

Mandeep smiles softly. 

“Like a chimney.” 

Stiles spends a few moments dealing with the packaging, handing the trash to Mandeep who pockets it. Impulsively, Stiles takes out the front middle one, flips it, and sticks it back in then grabs another one. 

Mandeep huffs but says nothing as Stiles lights up. 

His head swims, dizzy on his first inhale. Stiles breathes it out in a sigh. 

Something feels right about it; inhaling fire and exhaling smoke. Tension eases from his shoulders and Stiles sits back, feeling relaxed. 

Mandeep slides closer, leans against Stiles, and rests his head on his shoulder, smiling still. 

One of them begins to hum. 

 

 

 

 

In the dark of his room, Stiles holds his arms up, inspects the webbing of cuts across them, traces the scabs with careful fingers, the gaps between them where his flesh is raised angry and red. They pulse sometimes, late at night, early in the morning, as if someone were knocking on the other side. They never itch. 

 

 

 

 

“Got any nines?”

“No. Go fish.” 

Stiles pulls a card from the top of the deck. It’s the ace of hearts. Involuntarily, he thinks of the man from his dreams. Stiles places it next to the ace of spades, wonders why that seems correct. 

“Got any twos?”

“No.” 

Mandeep pulls a card. 

Stiles thinks, sometimes, that they’re not playing with a full deck; neither of them ever has the card the other needs. 

 

 

 

“How long have we been together?”

Mandeep pauses his hot cider making, looks at the ceiling with his mouth scrunched to one side. 

“I’m not sure. A year?”

Stiles nods, turns back to watching the wind card through the trees. 

Sometimes he thinks he hears whispers. Out in the woods. Hissed words he can barely make out. Right now they seem to be shouting in hushed tones; trying to scream something Stiles can’t hear. 

Arms wrap around him gently, carefully, lips touch his neck between a web of scabs. 

“What do you see?” Mandeep asks. There’s something desperate, needful, in his voice. 

“The woods. Snow.” 

There’s movement against his neck, lips stretching wide. 

“What I would give to get inside your head…” 

“You’d regret it,” Stiles thinks, doesn't say, as the wind turns snow drifts into abstract shapes in the uncertain light of sunset. 

He doesn’t know why he’d think that. There’s nothing in his head. 

 

 

 

The wind is shrieking outside, a mighty storm whipping the visible world. Sitting on a soft leather couch, Stiles watches it through large bay windows, fingers tapping in a pattern of five against his thigh. 

“Weather channel says it’ll be eight inches. Looks like I won’t be getting groceries today.” 

Stiles grunts as Mandeep flops down next to him. There’s something overpoweringly calling about the storm. Part of him wants— _needs_ — to go out into it, is restless with the desire. 

His leg begins to shake. 

A hand alights on Stiles’, stopping his fingers from tapping and his leg from shaking. He looks over. 

Mandeep is frowning. 

“Does the storm make you nervous?”

Stiles shrugs. 

“Maybe. Anxious.” 

He picks up Stiles’ hand and kisses the back in between a forking scab. 

“You’re safe. It’s alright.” Mandeep presses Stiles’ hand to his bearded cheek. “I won’t let anything happen to you.” 

“It’s too late for that,” Stiles thinks, says instead, “Your beard’s gotten long.” 

Mandeep pulls Stiles’ hand away. 

“Is that— do you like it?”

Stiles shrugs, moves his hand himself, dipping fingers into the curl of that coarse hair, feels it tickle his palm. It reminds him of the man from his dream. 

“Don’t hate it.” 

Mandeep laughs. 

“One day you’re gonna like something so much you’ll have to commit to it.” 

“Maybe,” Stiles mutters, still dragging his palm over Mandeep’s scruff. He wants it; wants to feel that beard on his lips, his body. He wants it to scratch at his neck and burn his thighs. 

“What?” Mandeep asks, a flush peaking out over his beard. 

Stiles shrugs, again, pulls him in by the back of his neck, tangling his fingers into the short curl of hair there. He presses his lips to the hair next to Mandeep’s mouth. 

Mandeep inhales sharply, fingers lightly brushing Stiles’ knee, his thigh. Stiles slides his mouth sideways, covers Mandeep’s own. The man under him groans, pulls away after a brief kiss. 

“You know we don’t have to, right? I’m not— I don’t expect—”

“I know,” Stiles interrupts, pulling Mandeep back. And he does, in a way. But…

He wants— needs something. He doesn’t know what it is, what it’s supposed to be and… this feels natural, easy even, to kiss a man with a beard. So he keeps pulling, tugging as he retreats, making Mandeep lean closer, over him. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

_Fingers buried in a rough beard, Stiles frowns, wanting answers to questions he doesn’t know._

_The grass feels cold, frozen and slick, under his feet. Beneath his palm, the face he sees is contorted in a soft pain Stiles doesn’t understand._

_“Why do I dream of you?”_

_A twig snaps not far away,_ Stiles turns to see what it is. The air is frozen, his feet throb in protest against the snow below them. 

“Stiles?”

Mandeep approaches slowly. 

Stiles takes in a shaky breath. 

“Who were you talking to?”

Wrapping his arms around himself, Stiles shrugs. 

Mandeep frowns, reaching for him. He’s always reaching for Stiles it seems. Some times Stiles thinks the man will eternally be reaching for him, would claw and howl and cheat and lie to possess him. 

The thought is unsettling. 

“Come on. Let’s get inside before you catch your death.” 

Stile shivers but he’s not sure if it’s because of the cold or some cosmic irony he doesn’t have the context for. 

 

 

 

 

_The world is white white white save for himself, a crooked body held up by feeble twigs. He shakes as the wind hisses between his limbs, tired and lyrical._

“I won’t give up on you,” a man snarls at Stiles. “I won’t.”

_Stiles’ stomach churns at the words like an overheated dryer and the snow on the ground moves with it, making a shadow-show of teeth and fur across Stiles. He doesn’t want this._

_“Take it back,” Stiles whispers, hisses, repeats. “Take it back.”_

_“_ No. _”_

_The man bares his teeth, hand tight around a short sword that looks unfamiliarly familiar. Something tightens in Stiles’ gut, brushes against his insides like the familiar ghost of a cat. The wind changes direction._

_“Please just let me go now,” Stiles pleads although he’s unsure why he’d want this man of fire and lunar brimstone to leave him. He means it, though, so he asks again and again._

_The man pays no heed to Stiles’ request, begins to slash at snow and ice and wolves._

_“I’m going to get you,” Stiles shouts, desperate. “I’m going to get you— I’ve gotta get you out of my head.”_

_He’s scared, terrified, of what would happen if this man reaches him, touches him._

_“GET OUT!”_

_The man pants and his blood drip-drip-drips from the rough hilt of his short sword. He looks up at Stiles with the eyes of an angry god._

_“_ Make me, _” he hisses._

_Stiles can’t. He doesn’t know how and he’s not entirely sure he wants to._

_He says nothing._

_His fingers that graze snow-wet grass give something away in the tingling slide of sensation across his palm._

_Briefly, in the stillness, in the eye of this winter storm, Stiles knows exactly who he is. He understands what he has done and what he has destroyed._

_“A man in love is the most dangerous, fearful, thing,” Stiles thinks as he steps into wakefulness, into resolve. He knows what he needs to do._

 

“Stiles? Are you in there?”

Stiles blinks, eyes focussing through the leftover haze of orange on Mandeep. He’s in the kitchen. How did he get in the kitchen?

“Yes.” 

Mandeep smiles. 

“I made eggs.” 

Stile shakes his head. 

“How long do you plan to do this?”

Mandeep frowns, fidgets with the kitchen towel tucked into the front of his pants. 

“Do what?” 

Stiles only stares at Mandeep in response. 

His shoulders drooping, Mandeep sighs.

“As long as I could.” 

Stiles smiles, full of a brittle tenderness, and touches the pads of his fingers to Mandeep’s cheek. 

Mandeep cups Stiles’ hand, kisses the palm. 

“I can’t stay here.” 

Mandeep shakes his head. 

“You can stay as long as you want—need— to stay.” 

“No,” Stiles denies, moving in, framing Mandeep’s head with his hands. “I can’t.” 

Mandeep looks up, eyes full and threatening to wet his cheeks. 

“One more day? Please. I—I need you…” 

Stiles shakes his head, presses dry lips to Mandeep’s forehead. 

“No.” 

Mandeep laughs once, sniffles. 

“You’re such a jackass, you know that?”

Stiles says nothing. 

Mandeep takes in a shuddering breath, presses his knuckles to his eyes. They stand, unmoving, for moments. 

“I’ll get some stuff together for you then,” Mandeep says with a watery smile.

Stiles lets him. 

 

While he waits, Stiles stares out the window, enraptured by the sway of leaves on the trees; the way they curl as if to beckon is hypnotizing. 

“Here,” Mandeep huffs, sniffles once, shoving a canvas bag into Stiles’ arms. “A few shirts, underwear, toothbrush, first aide supplies, bunch of granola bars, every gift card I could find, a book, your smokes, iPod, three hundred in cash but that won’t last long so I put one of my credit cards in there. It has only fifteen hundred on it but better than nothing, I guess.” 

Stiles nods in thanks, positive he won’t use much of any of this. 

Mandeep hugs himself, looks down at his naked feet. 

“I, uh, I also put my card in there in case— in case you want or need to call.” Mandeep takes in a deep breath, looks up into Stiles’ eyes. “I will _always_ come for you if you call. If you— if you need me. _I love you_ , Stiles. Now and for always…” 

Stiles leans in, feeling unmoved and guilty for it. He wipes his thumb below Mandeep’s eye, kisses his temple. 

Mandeep shudders, eyes closing. He grasps at Stiles’ shirt, clings to him. 

“I won’t.” 

Mandeep laughs, buries his face into Stiles’ neck. 

“I knew that, you asshole.” 

Stiles wraps his arms around Mandeep, shoves his nose into the curl of his hair, breathes in deep that chronic wet dog smell. 

“You just couldn’t let me have you, could you?”

“No,” Stiles whispers, oddly forlorn and obstinate. “I couldn’t.” 

 

Mandeep kisses him one last time on his porch, lips tacky, dry. Stiles allows him this, allows him to deepen it and take from Stiles what he needs, then turns, walks off the porch, across the lawn, and into the beckoning trees without looking back. 

He becomes obscured, found in the width and breadth and life of the woods. Stiles closes his eyes as he walks, listens to the trees hiss, “There is somewhere you belong. There is a place where you can be free.” 

Stiles breathes, easy and deep, and lets them guide him, feels the brush and tug of branches, thin spindly limbs, and smiles. They will take him, lead him, pull him where it is they think he should go. He trusts, if in anything, then in the quiet, almost unheard, whispers in the woods. 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Summary is a quote from Rainer Maria Rilke, Duino Elegies & The Sonnets to Orpheus. I found it somehow. I'm not sure. I've never read Rilke but this poem is beautiful.
> 
> I'll try to post as soon as I can. I've got so much to do and so little time to do it with the ending coming upon us so soon.


End file.
